IRONY IN AN ICICLE

by Wendy Visser
Ontario, Canada



It hangs from the eaves
on-duty sentinel
of a now vacant abode
soldier weary
at the crossroad to memory.
It hangs from the roof
point of no return
a dangling corpse;
see-through ghost
of myself as a child.
It hangs from the rafters
frozen reminder
of his wild anger arrow sharp
unleashed often and always overdone.
"You ain't goin' to amount to nothin'."
Noise of his voice,
a brakeless freight train barrelling
full speed into darkness.

Today
in sun's dazzle it shimmers
and I think that this must be how love looks.
I think too, of a father
transparent icon of a family tie.
I knock it from its moorings,
hold it until it melts.

 
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