Thrush Poetry Journal
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 June Rockefeller   

Chamonix

We took a cable car up the mountain, it climbed in jumps
bobbing heavily as if too full.  This was long ago,

before my fears hatched.  I remember the snow growing
as I breathed steam into the window.  There were notable facts

about the glacier but I couldn’t think.  I needed to touch
everything as we walked along the Mer de Glace, towards

its small museum―nothing more than a cave.  Inside was
white, ice.  Walking the narrow corridor I dreamed an explosion

splintering it all to pieces.  A symphony of shards raining
against the face of Mont Blanc.  All of this will end I thought,

fingering the displays―so there they were, nesting in me.
Perhaps I was better then at transforming them

into something tactile: an avalanche of ice.  Going down,
my mother buried her face in her hands and I knew not to notice.




June Rockefeller received her MFA from Emerson College where she served as Poetry Editor of Redivider.  Other recent poems 
can be found in Box of Jars, H.O.W., and, Poet Lore.  She lives and works in Boston.  




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