Jacqueline Powers

Thin Ice

Alone, the coyote’s grizzled snout
narrow against the snow.
A shallow rib-sticking breath,
another––
and small prey schemes, decay.
The smell of fear contagious.

Human Elks a dying breed.
Ten men in a smoke-filled room
snarf cheese balls through straws,
Miller Lite’s a litmus test––
sound optional on the boob tube.
No one notices
a shadow gone. In minutes
they’re my best friends.
When we leave I mourn their life way passing.
Another species.

Shorelines erode,
continents slide off the edge,
succumb
to fractal quakes. Eco-terrorists
bomb small vineyards,
honeybees vanish from the food chain.
Bats no longer fly at night.

We become more solitary.
Or maybe
it’s just the weight of particular words.
Everyone knows
it’s thin ice out there––
that’s why we dance so close.

 

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