The Poetry Society

We can't get the fridge to chill beer:

the ice-box stares back, a white bear's

rime-frilled, vacant face.

We chip off an inch of snow,

slush it to the sink, switch on the hum

that plagues us all night, slam the door

on a hive of crystallising ice.

We doze through fronds of cold,

sculpted caves, fogged early-morning breath.

Thirst wakes me, scanning the frost-lit bay,

tiles cold underfoot, a bottle freezing my fingers,

its agua minerale almost salty on my tongue.

When sun splays the shutters,

you speak slowly in your sleep:

Gracias. Gracias.

Your brow beaded, mysterious with thanks,

my hand reaching towards the numbed

frontier of your face.

When you wake I'm watching that brazen

burglary of light, a glass at my lips,

ice levitating, gas bubbles streaming

the way a de-compressing head of blood

makes for the surface.

Flippers semaphore another sub-aqueous

surprise - something else ecstatically

alive beyond your skin's heat,

those women spitting water,

the sails' paso doble

over waves' applause