Thin Ice
by Ellen Doré Watson
by Ellen Doré Watson
Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath—
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,
tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,
tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down,
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.
My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger,
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator
but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city,
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.
Ellen Doré Watson
is the author of Dogged Hearts (Tupelo Press, 2010).
She’s the director of The Poetry Center at Smith College
and lives in Conway, Massachusetts.
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.
Ellen Doré Watson
is the author of Dogged Hearts (Tupelo Press, 2010).
She’s the director of The Poetry Center at Smith College
and lives in Conway, Massachusetts.
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