Leslee Wright The Case of the Disappearing Water He froze each of his wives in turn. First a s cubes chuckle in his glass, cracking with hole in the ice, then a chute of black water. The body slips home like bone to socket, and how he longs to follow, to tuck the glaciers over his head like a slumbering cap. The funerals bring wreaths of snow, and him the only mourner, all eulogies lost to lungs and their vapor. He knows that when the epoch thaws they’ll wake in the garden they came from. All the floods will be tamed to a trickle, and the towers flattened to rubble, each brick and beam knocked loose from the offended heights. Fresh words will pepper the earth, right and remembered. Come summer, he can’t bring himself to binge on popsicles. They drool down his wrist in hot sunset rivulets, and the wooden sticks always catch on the panic crouched at the back of his throat. Ice
the mirth of wife number one, and mist chases him down the ice cream aisles. Neapolitan was the name of his sixth wife’s lipstick. Butter Pecan was his fourth wife’s hair. He doesn’t dare to look up at the wintering sky, that aloof eye, a perfect blue prickled over in frost. When it blinks, he’ll hide. When it cries, he’ll swim for his life.