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All That Glitters Is Not
by Ellaraine Lockie

Sun like oil slick on water
polishes icicles that hang
from the eave above the cabin window
Where there were none this morning
An act by the divine creator of art
And perhaps compensation

for last night's view of November rage
As though the devil ripped
my grandmother's handiwork from the table
And flung it in miniscule motifs
over and over against the glass
His hellhole howl as chilling
as a cat in an all-night heat

Stillness now except for prism light
dancing carnival colors across
the oak plank floor in front of the window
I'd believe that God won this round
in the ongoing battle of forces
If I didn't remember a mittened hand
holding an icicle

The danger sign parents flashed
when 20 below turns icicles adhesive
The dagger point that might have served
as omen if I hadn't been seven
With eyes that saw rhinestones
and with a mouth parched
by memory's want of a popsicle
I wouldn't have paid with skin and blood
Pain traded for forbidden pleasure
The curse cast by Eve
as sweet juice ran down her chin

 

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