Lake Ice

The length of a first marriage: eternity, shore-fast ice

creeping onto the Lake. In such cold, when told to sing, stones

fell from my throat; when told to sit still, knees hum.

So the Lake chews the pier when told to be quiet, sand

runs in frozen ridges up the dune. It’s all done; the mouth

unfolds its origami cranes. Was I the wife who cowered

in bed? You can’t sing with a broken neck. That girl folds

her hands into steeples: the open door, crowd of people

in rabbit-fur hats. Winter knocks its elbow against the window

glass. When told to be still, terns jab the horizon’s

barbed line. For years I thought the sun couldn’t again

shine: smudge low in the sky. Water a cold sludge. The child

who clung to my side and cried. White pine and grouse

and woodcocks and their upside-down brains undid daylight

in ropes, darkness braided in my hair. But winter-frozen

frogs will resurrect. But word that can’t be unspoken: hope.

Hell. Beneath the floe, the depth of water: miles.