Runcible Spoon

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Summer Not Ice


And I hated you then.

Because you'd given them ice

and I knew it wasn't.


It was the chunks of dirty

frost that you had scratched

out of our sink,

from the pile you'd torn from the freezer's edges

when you'd defrosted, and then

you pretended

to them that it had come from a bag, bought

from a shop or

from a tray you'd bothered to fill up.


And it wasn't.


They were impressed: oohed at your hosting skills.


I hated you hard for that.