Morning Ice

I’m driving straight into each & every snowflake
that dares to get in my way to prove something
final & crushing about the inevitability of my actions, the gospel

of trajectory that states it doesn’t matter
how you get where you’re going. Thousands of screaming
fans roar their approval! Their hunger is voracious;

their eyes devour. They love the resultant slush.
They are fans of aftermath but share with me a healthy fear
of long division. They prefer quick goodbyes, the kiss off.

No one wants to think they could lose everything they have
just like that. I am blinded by the stiletto light of sun
on these snowy days. Even though I am driving, my car

is like a couch shaped like my car & not moving.
The audience, those who are left, react with shock
& disgust. I’ve said nothing but implied so much

by the evocative positioning of my eyebrows learned
through long hours staring into the bathroom mirror.
There is a weakness in me so strong everyone can tell

I’d rather sit down than stand up. I’d like to punch you out
for what you said is the kind of thing I might say to someone,
though it is well known that I have trouble making a fist.

I am blizzard-driven; I am a snow-covered pier. I wish
I could melt myself away & whisper my wet secrets
to the asphalt all through the asphalt-black night

while the sun sleeps & the moon glows & I harden over
like glass. In the morning,
put one careless foot on me & find yourself falling fast.


Nate Pritts
from his book Honorary Astronaut
Ghost Road Press 2008.
Used by permission of the poet.

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