I have always had a phobia
of an ice skate slicing my throat.
My therapist tells me it has to do
with the fear of the food
that for so long I refused to swallow.
I repel at the thought that you might touch
that elastic, thin encasing skin.
Do you remember Apollo?
They always said it would never happen.
Do you remember when you asked me to be your girlfriend
on the ice of Frog Pond in the bitter center of Boston?
I was certain that it would happen.
Now I am left bleeding
prostrate and opened
sliced through the jugular like
the sacrificial winged golden-haired ram
left on Mount Pelion.
And with the disinhibition of a man
whose gods etched a constellated escape route
on the back of his hand
you wear the golden fleece
of my white-knuckled plans;
left me sopping
in the undoing
of me.
This piece was published in Summit Avenue Review Volume 47 , April 2023.