She grips the ice by its fingers,
her skin slipping on its skin
until she learns to use her nails
to catch hold. She can see
her hands through the ice
but blurred as if moving, a screen
from a movie, scene slowed down
so shades drag into watercolors.
When she kisses the ice, her tongue
ripples with its surface. To lick
means knowing the rhythm 
of the air when the water froze,
that instant. Both open to a time 
one phase of matter shifted
to another. And what are you? 
she asks herself, counting digits
until the heat of her fingertips
makes water return again.



Angie Macri

Angie Macri is the author of Underwater Panther (Southeast Missouri State University), winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize. Her recent work appears in The Laurel Review, Quarterly West, and Superstition Review. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs and teaches at Hendrix College. Find her online at angiemacri.wordpress.com.