It never snows in Denmark, just rains. The pavement unzips, un-white,
rubber tracking my difference all the way home with knuckles gripped, white.

On the bus, a small child accuses, sticky finger pointed at my
dark fault. I fold into my jacket, hinge at the hip, wish it white.

I text a lover a photograph of Schiele’s The Embrace, say it’s us.
He says it’s wrong (switched), my bronze body against his soft dips, white.

Ophelia’s response to imprecision was to sink to flowery death—
the mistaken murder maddening, the river rife with tulips, white.

Since its inception, the city of Copenhagen has burned down thrice—
a waning candle’s innocent crime, ashes painting the township white.

At night, I whisper the word for woman, then other, repeat again.
Wait for the language to punish, tongue foaming til it drips white.

Oh Lost One, you have broken all the rules: claimed country where there is none,
hollowed out your bones to make room for this stained worship, white.