Ice Cube

A block of frost
rests calmly in the crystal cup.
Its clear surface glistens against
the bright lights of the bulb above.
It stands still,
frozen in fright.

There are many types of ice.
Irregular and regular,
clear and gray.
My ice cube is a special one.
It’s not a cube
or bullet-like.
It’s the shape of a moon,
A thin, thin, crescent moon.

Suddenly the moon starts moving,
going up
and doesn’t stop.
The water is its ladder,
needed to climb all the way to the top.
My fingers pick it up
and the clear cube turns grey.
filled with fear of melting
in my warm mouth.

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