Cut Ice

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A discussion of the compelling and potentially disturbing attraction of sheet ice, from the perspective of a young teenager.

Submitted: January 31, 2007

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Submitted: January 31, 2007



Crouching by the edge of the pond,

I look out angrily onto an icy expanse.

A cold rigidity replaces the soothing flow of the water,

Impersonal, chilling stillness.


I reach out to the skates lying next to me,

The leather’s worn but the blades reflect the glare of the ice,

The sharpness is palpable, intoxicating.

I test the blade with my thumb,

Run it gently along the edge,

Even that gentle caress provokes a drop of vicious red.


I watch it fall onto the white surface, scattering and seeping

Into the seemingly impenetrable surface.

Within seconds it’s gone,

But a light pinkish stain remains,

Disrupts the endless white.


I raise a skate high and plunge the blade into the ice,

Cracks tear desperately across the surface,

A small hole is created, with harsh ice edges.

I lower my face to the hole and peer in,

Nothing but darkness, stillness,

The comforting flow strictly reigned in by its captor.


I look at the jagged borders of the hole,

Hack a piece off with the blade.

I bring it up to my eyes, resentful

Of its power to still, hoping

To find the source and eliminate it.


As I hold it, I realise the blood is still running,

Flowing out of the shallow cut in my thumb.

It mingles with the water that my ice is generating.

A pink glow is reflected onto the surface,

It is beautiful, it draws me in,

Brings life to the death-like stillness.

I make another incision on my thumb,

Freeing more blood.


The red makes patterns on the surface,

Catches the light and makes the ice sparkle like rose quartz.

I laugh out loud.

The sound resonates and draws my mother over.

She approaches smiling,

Sees the hole in the ice,

The fragment in my hand,

The cuts that I’ve made,

The blood.


Suddenly I’m being dragged into the house,

Thrown roughly into my room.

The blades are taken from me, my ice

Now melting into a smooth, pure pebble,

Ripped from my hands.

My mother is rustling through my possessions,

Taking things away.


Now I am alone again, in the stillness.

I sit by the window, looking out at the pond.

I can’t see my hole,

The surface looks unblemished, perfect.

But I smile as I watch it.

I know that it is not.

The cracks will spread,

The sun will take up the mission I began,

The victim will escape its captor,

All will be right again.


© Copyright 2019 Hettery. All rights reserved.

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