After you finally chose me and my divorce
_             _was final, I bought the brass, orb-shaped
locket with a hand painting inside,

impossibly small, of a glacier. Brush
_             _strokes thin as hairs, seeming almost
accidental. It felt then like I could mock

your pace because you’d finally made it,
_             _mock your silence because you’d finally
spoken up. I wouldn’t know for years

that glaciers produce a clamor
_             _like thunder, and while I did know
that only ten percent of a growler crests

above the water, I wouldn’t understand,
_             _until I saw it myself, that ice is always
moving, and fast. We blinked at Bear Glacier

_             _and the icebergs rearranged themselves.
Blinked, and one, glowing from within
_             _like a tumbled gem, rolled over to show us

its belly, or, you might say, a new face.