before the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
the weather, arctic and diabolical
one pond down the farmer’s lane
five inches solid
subzero
we shuffle among snowflakes whorls
a wintry blanket covers the forest floor
oiled saws, sharpened axes sleep
among stacks of bundled wood, heaped
knocked out cold
each of the village coal furnaces steep
swirling aroma of smoky dust
above the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
we arrive as the sun rises and the trees weep
the pond is ours alone, locked in the vault of white
my mittens removed, one one knee
pulling your laces tight, you squeal
on thin ice
beside the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
i fall, numb
you smile and radiate
an icebreaker
cold hands, warm heart
laughing on the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
we make our own revolution, and another
orbiting around each other
gracefully to the left, bending to the right
you move me end to end
paths never to be retraced
challenging me to keep pace
finally catching up, you kick to a stop
your pose titanic
carving the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
sitting on the wet wooden log
icicles clutching against gravity
cider, anise cookies, sandwiches on my leather bag
cold turkey
breaking fast on the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
pulled back onto the ice
we speed up, an unspoken game of chase
ice shavings record our trails
our past prevails
crystallized
skating on the chilled pond
dear Katiyana, lace up
* * *
Born in Boston. Lived up and down the East Coast, then up and down the West Coast, now back in his home city. Runs rad restaurants. Thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. Publications include The Manhattanville Review, Oddball Magazine, Rio Grande Review, and The Commonline Journal.
Contraposition 