The sky holds ice. Baby blue slides to old-man silver grey. Air is edged and sharp. Skin is cold as burnt touching water; heart pain for those who have suffered. Close the door when the last stranger has entered; never, never, when one remains outside.
ice
Ice
Call them ice, rocks, diamonds. Or what your sugar boy calls them. That’s what Aki had been told. But he got it wrong and paid.
Sleeping with the windows open (Biography Part 1)
Bobby was the kind of boy who slept with the windows open, come hail or ice or snow. On holidays abroad he slept in the wine cellar. His parents took him to see doctors but they could find no fever; he just functioned better in the cold. When he was a teenager he worried about global warming but in Scotland that only seemed to mean more rain and snow. His family and friends thought he would become an Arctic explorer or an ice cream seller; some even had a sweepstake on the job he – or his temperature – would choose. But in the end the universe showed it had a sense of humour. From the day he picked up his first guitar, it was clear – he would be in a band, the coolest band in town.
Feet slide together
Feet slide together then slip slowly, unstoppably, apart – the fence stops his fall. Families in red gloves, blue scarves, skate past him as he clings to the rough-painted wood. She sees him clinging there, still slipping, and feels a warm rush: “I’ll skate with you”. She takes his elbow.
Cold chips
On my icy late way home, in the orange urban light, I drop my chips. Bag splits; chips spill. Fortunately, the pavement has been salted. Dino was less lucky. He dropped his fresh-shucked oysters on the freshly gritted hill.
simonsalento 