Thin Ice

My marriage was thin ice— 
over deep, dark, dangerous waters.
My mother died, and I fell through.
He was not there to save me,
so others did their best.

I nearly died, but I did not.
I learned my lungs breathe love.
The current took me to myself.
I surfaced in the spring.

.

We’ll Dance

There will be no reconciliation
as long as one of us is dead.

And still I beat my heart.

Hours of feeling wasted.
Hours of feeling— 
wasted.

I dash to leap— 
find you in the ether,
before you’re lost in space.

There, right there, to the left a little,
now up a pinch, and over, 
past the blame—we’ll dance.

You thought, but it’s not
over—not now—not ever.

© Diane Lee Sammet

Diane Lee Sammet has been published in AppleSeeds Magazine. A graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, Diane holds two master’s degrees from Columbia University and the University of Hartford. You can learn more at dianeleesammet.com.

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