Photograph
By Benjamin Glass


I’m midstep with my toboggan at his waist across a frozen lake in central Ohio.
We’re on our way out of frame, out of the stillness of a camera click and into the wake of
            winter’s sense.
We’ve left our footprints glossed in sunlight.
The whole thing is overexposed, bleached contrast and whitewash.
In one corner, above the gray treeline, a factory tilts like a half sunk ship, straining for the
            thaw.
What you can’t see is his breath hanging off his chin, the crystal tears cornered in his wind-
            whipped eyes,
The grind of our weight on the ice, our fingers gloved, bloodless, and numb.
What you won’t see is the moment after—he pulls off his gloves and breathes the cold from
            his fists,
And in the bate of his breath it returns, and leaves, and comes back so as we walk, he’s
            always pumping his fingers into his palms.
He’ll pull the gloves back on and with his hand at my back he’ll move me forward,
As if, of the two, he were the best fit to follow, and I, snowsuit and clumsy crunch,
To lead along the ice and snow-dust, so cold and quiet we’re like strangers.

Benjamin Glass lives in West Tennessee and is soon to complete an English degree. He has a short story forthcoming in decomP  magazine.

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