Another ice storm poem. Because, as Jason Shinder (of blessed memory) used to say, "whatever gets in the way of the work is the work."
The ice forest rattles and rings
as though a large man were dancing
above the chandelier showroom
at the crystal import business
on South Flores in the old downtown.
That warehouse has been empty for years
but a trick of distance and the light
places my father at his desk again
unlit cigar on the cut-glass ashtray
waiting for his drive home.
What did they do in the old country
when ice limned every twig?
Maybe strolled on a Shabbat afternoon
storing images to reproduce
in hand-cut glass once the week began.
Cold air cuts through my clothes
and my back yard becomes Krasnopol
the lake on the outskirts glinting
cross-hatched by ice skates
like the goblets no one can afford.
*Line 7 donated by Teju Cole. Thanks, Teju.