THE  27Th  EDITIOn

It had been a night of screaming.

Now, in the ragged morning

my sister and I went to the skating pond.

The same wind that had coaxed me

to the far shore

now wrestled me back

to the center,

where I lay on the ice, panting and parched.

 

My sister circled and sat.

I’m so thirsty, I said.

She raised her foot, skate gleaming,

and bludgeoned the ice with the blade.

The crack widened,

each blow ringing the pond,

until a hole grew and water pooled.

 

We pressed our lips to the ice

and took turns drinking—

drafting long, cold mouthfuls

slaking every brittle cell.

 

Now,

where was the mother or the father

skimming toward us, calling

Stop! The ice will crack

and you’ll fall

in and drown.

And without you I would die.

 

But there was no one.

Nothing but my sister and me

and the frozen pond

and our thirst.