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He stepped off the edge,
mistook the Mississippi
for the door to the next bar,
Or skated on the fickle ice
thinking he could fly.
I see his face, suddenly sober
as he flails and claws
For the one hundred and eighty seconds
freezing water took
to lock him in its arms.
I shut my eyes, afraid to see
among tree roots on the bank
his reaching hand.
Each ice floe traveling south
could free him
So I veer away from the river now
and dread spring,
dread the thaw.
JANNA KNITTEL resides in St. Cloud, Minnesota, where she teaches writing and literature classes. She grew up in Oregon and has lived in California, Kansas, and England. She has published poems in Parnassus, Apostrophe, The Jabberwock Review, and Kaleidoscope and has completed a novel set in central Oregon.
