Moaning like a lost whale
the thin ice
bellowed behind us
then cracked and rang
as if spit from a whip.
The sharp steel of
my over-sized skates
etched unspeakable joy
into the slate-grey,
reptilian skin
of Walden Pond.
Our mismatched hands
gripped together
in the fading light
of a January afternoon,
And you pulled me
onto untouched darker ice
where fathers
should never take sons.
You circled tighter
and, spinning like a bullfighter,
you let me go,
splayed across the ice,
arms outstretched,
screaming to you
into the black hole
of memory.
