She stands in the doorway,
already tired of the idea,
kisses my shoulder, says
nothing happens in those old films.
Gone before the palace appears.
On screen, Queen Kelly opens
in velvet discipline.
A prince in braid and polish.
Gloria Swanson luminous as frost.
Von Stroheim stacking control
until it hums like a pulled wire.
I love it. I forget to pause it.
Remembering the waterline in the shed.
Night has dropped hard.
The ground is iron.
The shed door won’t budge.
Frost heave has lifted the corner post
half an inch?
It closed fine. In October?
Now crooked in its frame,
wood shrunk, hinge stiff,
latch misaligned.
The pond lets go with a boom.
Not thunder.
Ice shearing from bank to center,
a long crack traveling
like anger through the dark.
On screen, the prince tightens his grip.
In velvet rooms, shame builds.
A girl in lace held too long.
A kingdom swollen from within.
Water expands when it freezes.
Nine percent is enough.
Enough to split copper,
burst a seam.
Another report from the inlet.
Clean. Structural.
The shed door jerks loose
with a splintering pop.
Inside, the pipe has done its quiet work.
A hairline split along the run,
waiting for thaw.
Back in the house, the palace flickers.
Swanson in silver light,
glorious and already cracking.
The pond answers again.
I let the reel turn.
I let the ice finish speaking.