Ice-cube
Martin Alexander - UK

Swallow an ice-cube whole –
not a sharp-edged chunk
but one that’s smoothed and round –
a hefty opal waiting
in the bottom of a glass.

I baulked to feel it icy on my tongue
and closed my eyes
and pushed back twice
against the mute resistance of my throat.

And then it slid straight
down into the dark
Bright like a light
with its cold slither.

I can feel it now –
now, as I type
this quick poem –
melting sharp behind my ribs.

Is this lingering touch of melted ice
Just an oesophageal echo?
A memory preserved
a gratitude out of
the visceral dark
for the slow sensation
that traces a route to traverse
my unimagined continent,
the vacuum between
my sensuous mouth
and the unmapped
foreign chasm
of my chest?

O Freud, stay away from
simple pleasures –
I sing only ice and burning
and the cold awakening
of sensation.