Icicle

Remember how I was?
Like Plasticine in your hands,
All my colors molten into clay
For you to knead and play,
To shape dumb dolls and pets
And to roll frail spindly limbs,
Which you would attach
Onto the dumb torsos
And then contort
Never feeling any pain.
And then, the moment came,
When those limbs and joints gave way.
And I who was cased in them
Became water, flowed out..
But I froze before I hit the floor
Not into ice cubes to chill your drink
But into an icicle
Suspended painfully in front of you.

 

This poem was first published in The Literary Hatchet Issue 21 (page 67)