TIMELESS

The ballfield flooded to make a rink,

my whole body laced

into my brother’s old skates,

stick-like ankles, wobbly legs,

                        little shack of bones...

I stuttered over the smooth,

            over the ridges,

                        through the shiver of snow.

The press of blades, the knocking.

Pinches of air

were lodged below the surface

            as if a tiny girl were breathing

among the starbursts and crackles,

that brief, timeless freeze.

My own breath stiffened to crystals

that chafed my cheeks

and tasted of salt

on the red wool scarf

my mother took such care

to wrap me in.

Sara Burant is the author of a chapbook, Verge (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Nimrod, Poetry East, and Atlanta Review, among others.