Glass bong, slippery girl, ice cold strap-on & loud, you blinded me
with the science of blowing. I could barely take in the cold smoke
rising between Ontario’s freeze & your glory hole. The geese flew through
the lehr, south. I made my way to the rails, my arms outstretched. Two women,
married or widowed sisters, took my picture by the lip. Look, they said, take us
by the icicle trees & then we’ll take you. The glass branches went ting ting
into a million flowers of refracted light, a double infinity on the color wheel.
The hoarfrost on my Raybans was so thick—once, an American woman
sealed herself in a copper barrel they made just for her fall. Fool,
she said, no one ought ever do that again. She broke
nothing—not pelvis, mandible, knee. Men made of glass were shattered by the Falls:
glass on glass, molten steel falling frozen into the shape of a white narwhal’s twisted horn.