The Möbius Strip of Grief

When I went into the room where you waited,
you said you were not staying here with me.
Angry, I went back to get an ice pick
where a large block of ice lay on the stairs.
It froze my fingers when I tried to lift it.
I am not a murderer, even in the brilliance
of sleep where poems are three-dimensional.
How often you come this way
in your cold contempt for my ignorance.

Copyright © 2008 Ruth Stone All rights reserved
from What Love Comes To: New and Selected Poems
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission