Section 4

The synth kicks in behind the hum

of the upright freezer’s rattling lung.

I reach for the peas, the plastic bag

slick with a thin and icy lag.

My hand stays stuck against the pane.

The singer’s voice is a steady drain,

spilling out over the linoleum floor,

while I stare through the fog of the door.

The heat of my skin begins to blur

the frost where my white knuckles were.

Four jagged marks where the ice gives way,

turning to water and slipping away.