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]

 

One Response to “Skating close”

  1. Sue Featherstone Says:

    I love the image of trepanning a pond.

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