I’ve been waiting for a cold spell to blog-publish this poem, which came out recently in Great Lakes Review. Pull a chair up next to the fire with a hot cup of something. Hope you enjoy it.
Beater on the Ice
My idea of a god
is northern Michigan’s
winter, its implacability,
its disregard for us.
The sun disappears.
We wake in darkness
eat supper in darkness.
Day is a brief shining, dull as lead.
Snowbanks close in around us,
marriages and friendships
strain at the seams.
The ore carrier Edmund Fitzgerald
founders off Whitefish Point.
The last transmission:
“We’re holding our own.”
An annual ritual saves us.
Someone drives a donated beater,
a rusted-out Charger or Civic,
out onto thick ice on the inland lake
and we set up a betting pool
on when it will break through.
It sits there all winter,
a graying bulk in relentless snow,
staring at us with two blank eyes
like an animal waiting to be sacrificed.
On a still-cold day under a fair sky
the lonely old car will settle a bit, as if tired.
Before an expectant crowd
a corner will tip into the thaw,
then another, then the whole thing
will slide back and under
like the Titanic in the movie.
Released from the spell
we’ll celebrate at Jim and Mary’s Lakeside
and wonder at the crazy things we do
to stay sane.