In the Ice House

We sleep here on the lake frozen
deep and hard enough for cars and fishhouse
shanties clustered miles from shore
their propane lights pop-and-winking in
dark shells of salvaged doors,
windows, shingles, scraps of plywood--finally
snuffed out by the stinging swirling
grays of snow and ice as far as I
can see, separating me
from safety, from the shore where even bare
trees shelter me from this
oppressive emptiness, from this blank space
that crushes rather than expands
my sense of possibility.

After clearing the remains
of drinks and chips, cheese and smoked fish, cookies
left from Christmas, after spreading
sleeping bags and moving boots and bags
away from holes and lines attached
to jingle bells that have us trained to jump
and jerk a line, to peer, head deep
into the hole at dark, reflective water
and not see ourselves,
after squatting one last time on drifts
some ten or twenty yards away
(I hope) from where we walk, and stamping snow
from boots I leave beside our cot
I crawl around the fisherman, the keeper
of the bait, lineman expert
with the hook and sinker and I peel
off heavy layers, slide into
my bag and sleep quite well, considering
the three boys--sons and nephew--sandwiched
sideways on the bunk above us and
the girls--daughter, niece and friend--
arranging all their things across the room.

I know two well the answer to the children's
riddle: How do you spell water
with three letters? I C E--
for even in my dreams--of doors
uneven in their frames, that won't shut square,
of me a teacher lecturing
a class of wide-eyed, gaping, curling eels--
I feel depth. Beneath
the fishhouse floor, the foot of ice, dark
water waits for spring, for warmth,
which I want, too, but fear: water
waits to rock, fill, cover me.

Morning. In the light more shantytowns
emerge, their bleakness somewhat tempered
by the warmth and energy I know
them to contain. The curving mounds and
waves of snow around those shacks no doubt
are stained like ours; nearby, our frozen
fish lie tossed outside in random piles.
Inside, on the heater, socks,
a glove, knit face mask, all recovered from
the fish holes, steam, adding to
the smell of bait--shiners, waxies, crappies--
more than we will use before
we leave the lake. We eat and play more games:
speed and spit, solitaire, kings' corners.
Daylight and the mundane dull
my night-time depth perception, dim my snow-blind
vision of the space surrounding
all of us, so that I don't know
if I am glad or sorry that
my first--and likely last--night on the ice
of Lake Mille Lacs is through.