Protest-ant. An Ice-o-lated Poem

Stubborn as a statue,
he stood barefoot on the ice,
smooth as polished granite.
The chill climbed over his ankles
to just above the knee;
that’s when the rattling started.
First the teeth under sealed lips,
then uncontrollable chest quakes.

His misquote of Donne
led him there.
“No man is on Iceland.”
He saw the block, frozen,
and stepped up on it naked.
No one saw him on the west end
of the memorial park.
After twenty minutes he stepped off.

He got cold feet.


No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.John Donne, Meditation XVII
English clergyman & poet (1572 – 1631)


It’s a thought. Iffin I don’t get voted off, I step off the island to find my need for you. My poetry and books don’t protect me. They often push me toward community. We all close the pages at some point and meet each other. All we have to do is count our ribs while we embrace.




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