Black ice
by Rachel Joy Watson
For two years,
there was black ice everywhere;
on my apartment steps,
on the road to work
and on the pathway
we walked
from my car
to church.
Sometimes
we’d risk our lives
just to drive down the road
for a bag of hot tacos.
On the way
we’d share stories from our day,
laugh, shiver, and
pretend
we weren’t freezing.
But in the morning
I’d slip on the steps
and grab the railing
to brace myself,
whispering to God for the hundredth time:
“Thank you.”
Thank you
that my neck isn’t broken,
that when my car hydroplaned
through that red light,
I didn’t die.
I didn’t kill anyone.
I just hovered
above ground
long enough to see
what it feels like
to lose complete control
and live.
I remember making it to work
on time that morning,
but winter
will always remind me
of the cold, slippery wet
of losing you.
