Ice Chips

Photograph by Steven Depolo

This is the end of pica
our anemia resolved.

The perfect cube falls
into the glass, it melts

like the way we lose
our minds. Pieces

of us leave trails
on the hardwood.

We don’t fail at room
temperature, hidden

between the couch
and wall, going to dry

without pagophagia
and the three states of matter.

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2 thoughts on “Ice Chips

  1. “We don’t fail at room
    temperature, hidden”

    This stanza really echoes and has depth. I learned a great deal from this poem, too. Thanks for posting. :)

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