The ice was thin—I knew it

The ice was thin—I knew it

before I stepped: pale, a skin

across the puddle in the strip mall lot.

February. I put my weight in

without deciding. The crack moved out

from under my boot—not sharp, not fast.

Slow. The way something works out

a long decision. Last

after last. The water came up dark

at every edge, the white going under.

I stood still. I left my mark

and watched the split go further

toward the curb. It took a while.

I held my keys. The cold

sat there. No denial,

no drama. Something old

and structural, giving up

from where I stood on it.

Three days. I can't stop

coming back to the split—

the sound of it: not loud,

more like a slow concession.

The dark water. The crowd

of nothing. No question.

My feet.