The Ice House Poem by Lisa Russ Spaar

The Ice House



When my daughter fights on the phone
with her boyfriend, even her side
of the story unintelligible as my pain -

bruised, alto, altering the lit hallway
between our rooms—I think of the ice house:
pineal, subterranean light,

cave dug in a creek bank among a ganglia
of ponds, its snug, clapboard dormer
a white-washed domestication

of the wildness within, winter felled
beneath corbelled ceiling, slabs of ice
sawn from frozen stream and coulee,

tonged onto sledges, hauled & packed
among straw, sawdust—so that, in the heat
of rage, or age, or passion,

what shivers of sweet sorbet,
what unlikely shocks of whine-numbing joy
issue from its galaxy, its dipper.

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