Cracked Ice

Muffled chink of milk bottles handled
by the milkman's barely unfrozen fingers

when I was younger you gave me
a hard rock in a soft place

the space between
my outspread palms

mouth of a closing door
opening wider

sound of ice in the river

my face
when I look at myself

in the mirror.

I must remember these when I go under

no point in resurfacing unless it's to remind us
of our beginnings

in the street I hear children
forgetting themselves

these are the nights
I wander

hands outstretched

as houses blink
their windows at me

turn and stare
as if I want to burn them

when a door is shut
I kick it open

© 2008 Geraldine Green/UK