Fractured beneath the ice, his face,
his fingers, grind against it.
I don’t fear him. Look –
if I leap or stamp, he flips away,
defeated.
Though too quickly he’s back,
glittering fly at a sweetshop window.
Over his eyes I etch sentences
out of his grasp.
There – as I slide over him – there –
an angel in my aether:
My score deletes his every sign.
There. Watch them flinch. And there:
slurs of ice shearing,
confetti sprinkling the veil of feeling.
I’d know my own reflection if I saw it.
Let him bring
amphibian bit and brace, trepan the pond,
insinuate this ghost-breathing.
My blades will slit his hands.
I’ll weld his hot lips to the whispering ice.
[Orbis #144,third prize by readers’ vote, 2008]
Words with music 
April 30, 2009 at 9:27 am
I love the image of trepanning a pond.