Bike’s tires skim the ice-rimmed
road, crazed as a skull’s surface.
A long way from, a long way to,
with the temperature still dropping—
then we skid round a curve carved
through forest, find this black and white
tableau. You stop, your body rigid. The frozen
lake is bled of color, yet somehow
missing nothing. I want to stay to take it in—
spooky cathedral of trees and snow—
but you gun the motor, ride fast and far
till the cold’s coiled through our bones.
Later, in our motel bed, curled
round me like a comma, you call me
scarlet, countess, cinquefoil
then tell me what you saw:
My childhood priest was washing his hands
in the mirror of the water. He scrubbed
and scrubbed those dirty hands, till the soap
was just a sliver. But the soap—
it was his hands, and soon
they whittled down to marrow.