Avondale/Holland
 

We collect at the periphery:
uncertain bathers at the edge

of a great white pool. But when
the sound is given, you lead

the push, your strong wax strokes
slipping through ice,

long and looping, making the first
scrawled marks in the afternoon.

I recall your stories, the photo,
a long tract of ice

as far as the eye can see,
incising the horizon,

swept clean and smooth
in a well-groomed stripe.

*

It’s what they call
a diamond day –

the white stretch fastened
with clear, cold air, nothing

between but you,
the slipstream swoop of skaters,

children on double blades
clutching chairs. You start:

sawtooth metal stuck in ice,
the push. You swing your arms,

gather yourself, thighs
thrusting forward against the hard

canal and you’re there, in flight.
Top half forward, chin tucked in,

hands linked there
in the small of your back.