Thermal Shock

The kitchen is a cave at 3 AM.

The sink light is a yellow eye.

I dropped two cubes into the glass

and the sound was a gunshot,

a sharp, wet snap that made

the cat jump off the counter.

It’s the temperamental physics

of the cold meeting the room.

Inside the ice, white lightning

freezes into a jagged map,

a million tiny fractures

breaking the center apart.

I drink the water anyway.

It tastes like the freezer,

like old peas and plastic,

cold enough to make

my front teeth ache.