— Diane Lee Moomey“The Spread Eagle!” he cries
and shows us, arms and legs wide, carving
a perfect circle on the ice. We copy, stiff in new
Christmas skates, white —
always white, our girl skates —
with silver blades and teeth
that grab. We tumble,
then find our feet. Arabesque, the twirl,
the race to the far end of the pond, the breathless
drop to ice, sliding to a stop
on blue nylon-padded knees. I flop onto my back.
A snowflake lands exactly
between my eyes. Now on my belly.
Mittened fingers rub a clean place — nose
against the ice, hot breath
melts a bare spot. Cupped hands
around my eyes make a shadow tunnel. Under that glazing:
a liquid world where surely
a fish will swim close enough
to peer at me from
her side of our window.