Before today, I’ve only skated on an ice rink at a mall,
where you go round and round
in the same direction,
while organ music gives your glide its tempo.
There is always one girl
with a little skirt
who breaks away from the crowd and skates into the center,
and twirls. She starts slow, throwing her arms out,
bent as if in worship to the ice and the force of gravity,
and turns, her skirt flaring
and hands weaving invisible ribbons in the cold air.
Then, arms crossed over her chest, she spins
faster and faster into a blur,
drilling the ice
until she stops—
a flash of skates and spray.
I’ve always wanted to be that girl.