Black Ice by C. Derick Varn

The remains of sidewalk
snow melted black against
the contours of larger darkness:

the bruised black of my
thigh gives stinking warmth,
beyond the power to heal

or hurt comes the knowledge
spread across the pavement
and the ground.  Sticky

stillness of night into further
night, and I have come
to the breaking, and in

breaking, we know. In
such cold, the ice of river
cracks and rolls into

the larger stream
as blood spiders
its way through

the warrens of my
skin.  The woman
with me does not laugh

nor nurse.  Brushing
my hand aside she
speaks to the nothing

that is: it takes more
than fucking to keep
yourself warm and

more than good footing
to stand straight
in precarious blowing snow.


One Response to “Black Ice by C. Derick Varn”

  1. […] life. My work has been largely apolitical as you can see in my recent published poems (here, here, here, here, here, and […]

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