Julia Lisella
I thought the ducks left for winter
but you said no, not anymore
as though they were some
failed comeback group from the 60s
who just played the same local club, now,
floating on their frigid deck of icy river water—
they move sparingly
and fish the shallows where cracked ice
clears a way for them. While we watch them
you tell me a story about some teenagers
who drove their pickup truck
top-spinning—I'm making this term up—I don't know
what kids high and bored in New Hampshire
call driving on a frozen lake—
but the lake (you know the rest) wasn't ready yet
and the pickup just disappeared
and I said oh no already imaging their young bodies
caught beneath the ice, their mothers mourning,
but you laughed no those idiots lived, made it out of the truck.
I mean a pickup truck? as though a Mazda Miata
might have made it, but a pickup?
The cold hit us at the turn in the river,
and then you nearly slipped on your ass, again,
a sliver of ice caught under one worn sneaker tread.
Steadied, I laughed at how willing you'd been,
grabbing my hand, to take me down with you.