Hack
Yesterday in the thaw, a sudden
satisfaction: Hacking with a shovel at ice
three inches thick, blue-white and wet,
softening into snow-cone.
I didn’t intend to help.
I only wanted to prove
the work could be done.
Bent in a right angle, lifting the shovel, I said
the ice would relent, loosen itself into sheets,
no salt needed, a continent
exploding into islands
ready for Jake to scoop away.
I was so right. Wrists rattled as I sliced
with the edge of the shovel, pounded
each stroke with a smack
on the sweet spot, blasting
ice into smile-shaped stones,
a rhythm in my legs and hips,
lifting and smashing, working
beyond what was on my mind,
in unison with Jake, the excavator: “Good
job, Mom,” he said, “you’re good at this,”
till we broke through to shining pavement,
till the effort healed us in the dripping light.
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