The gist of everything was that they hid,
the skates, atop an upturned rocking chair
in a broken cardboard box without a lid
nestled on some throw rugs frayed with wear.
So if I wanted to go skate that day,
I had to clamber up the chockablock
pile of the family’s past—now thrown away
to molder in its state of aftershock—
and pilfer them. The creek, a solid sheet
on which to fly off sucking air for good,
would whisper to my awkward-rhythmed feet
as I scraped up it through the ice-bright wood
straight toward a gelid reach, winter-blind
to what was up there—and what was behind.
ONE WAY by Terence Culleton | Sandalwood Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
