Elizabeth Kirschner: Ice

Ice floes float down river,

like a bas relief, or, or

a lone grey monarch.

I’m alone (in a junkyard

of jumbo molars) adrift

—

Catastrophic bees,

snow buzzes, drones and I want

your scrotum’s bruised crepe,

thin as the skin on my neck—

hear the wind’s gunshot hit me

—

Ice on the road, thin

as a fingernail. Snow melt

patters in gutters,

like gum balls. My depression

curates, cures your antique soul

—

Designed for surprise,

the ending grows, a river

shivers in moonlight—

my sigh bends the winter branch,

shadows’ hallucination

—

Your absence hounds me

with a voice even the gods

fear: wind-scratching-glass,

sharp chirrups without surcease

over winter-weary fields

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Kirschner

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