The Crucible



by John Sosnowski

My heart cracks at the sight of the ice,

shaping itself, a swell around dead flesh,

chilled to the bone in a lightless landscape.

My hope sinks under warm running water,

drowned in my own negligence.

I failed to free the lifeless hunk from the cold.

My shame cannot be blanketed.

Dinner’s going to be late tonight.

The freezer-burnt roast is still frozen.