|Apr/May 2006 Poetry Special Feature|
Nigel is Fuming
So what if he dropped the amulet
the moment before Angie hit the ice,
arms helicoptering madly, her mouth
forced into a silent O, subtitled: scream.
It's not like the purple sheen actually
works; if it did, he would be thirty-five,
a physician, no longer afraid of playing
truth or dare. There would be no need
to scratch messages into defenseless
trees, no more dreams of freckles.
He'd be with the one, eyes locked at
vertical angles, safe from this dark-
haired pixie obsessed with his name
down to her pink-ribboned skates.
Serves her right for curlicueing Nigel
on virgin ice, over and over again.