Beth Konkoski
Ice Trees
Winter afternoon
the puddles are sequined
in frozen light.
I crunch through mirrors
and storm shards,
my wild feet like wrecking
balls and the landscape’s only
sound. The white veneer
so settled on branches only
days ago has worn, leaving
the woods unclothed, stark
as a bomb site where bodies
line the street. But near
the creek where water,
although sluggish, still lives,
the trees sway in diamond
waltzes with the breeze
and glint their beauty in surges,
defying those who would
lock it safely away.
Now I See the Drawing You Made
Your sketch of me, smudged on the ridge
by your left hand, a curse, this course your
fingers trace, to trail a trace of what I mean
to you. Sorry you say, without meaning it,
for the dulling of my eyes that I dolled for
you, the careless, careful way you show
me not to care. I learn the lessons as you
lessen your intentions. Stuck as a seed
deep in my gums, your memory takes
unruly root, breaks skin, the rules, my heart
with these strokes of charcoal on the page
when you won’t even stroke my arm
as it waits beside you in the wake
of affection, the ripple I wanted to call love.
A Summer Afternoon When I Avoid the Page
I work the creek bank
instead, watch the water
twine and serenade
like rope, pretending
it’s research. Because
I am focused on the corner
of light and shadow,
those golden coins of sun
minted by the water’s
motion, I miss the fish
on the bank until
its tail flips a few startled
inches and resettles.
Nearly covered by
the ink black mud,
its sides cave in slowly
in this foreign world of air.
The troubled purse of mouth
shifts on its hinge and a thin
rivulet of blood moves
with a staggering pulse
through the hole where
a hook has been left.
