Ice

Long after nightfall, my father parks 

the Ford in the driveway of our new house, 

just blocks from Noter Dame.  

A quilt of snow beds down the rooftops. 

The street glistens with ice 

under the glow of lamplights. 

It feels like Christmas but it’s February. 

I leap from the car to the white spears hanging 

from windows, snap one with an ungloved hand, 

lift up my face to the stars, the dagger 

melting in my hand, trickling down my forearm

into my sleeve, soaking my sweater, but my gaze

stays pinned to the blaze above and my body 

starts a spin to take them all in.  Like a skater, 

I hold out my arms as if to welcome all those suns 

into my life, clutching the spear as if it were a wand. 

I forget about my cold, wet sweater and spin. 

I do not yet know the earth too spins under me, 

and so the moon and planets and sun, each spinning 

around itself, each in its own orbit around 

the others, all of us together, 

my family, the earth, the galaxies, 

all at our own paces, spinning, 

pushing into the darkness, 

where there is absolutely nothing 

until we get there.