The grill kicks an orange hole in the season,
a spear into ribs,
a thief in aisle eleven: I've laid hands on those
massive midwest drills
+ imagined twisting one into a frozen lake til
water quit its solid
seasonal stubbornness to reveal blinking life
beneath, living stuff
which knows more ways to live with ice than I.
What I know
involves occasional cocoa, salt on the side
walk, recalled or fore
told equitorial stories, Costa Rica or warmer. The
salmon hums bright
pink in the December dusk + the dog believes
falling snow's a question
asked over and over again, he answers with barks,
where his two-hours-back footsteps have dis
appeared. The only
chance I've had so far I turned from the hole
in the ice, watched
friends offer vividity to its depth, the lake
a phone booth they
dropped the quarters of their youth into, hello...
we all steamed in dark
together. Who knew. They hooted, I hung back.
And what was it they
found or felt? That view, stars the endpoints
of distant icicles. They
emerged dripping, touched blue. It's like going
through, they said.
To where, to what. Who knew. Ellen loves me
despite that I've
never manned up + dropped myself into
+ now the fish is ready, flesh flaky, out of place
in this cold: we
make meals from whatever we can, set the table,
count days till May,
pour the wine, dive in.
Weston Cutter's the author of You'd Be a Stranger, Too, a collection of stories, and the chapbooks All Black Everything and (0,0). He runs the book review website corduroybooks.com and has poems coming soon in diode and Copper Nickel.