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."
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CRYSTAL
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.
