Cathedrals of Ice

by Kelley Jean White

My father and I on our knees beside
the lake, Winnipesaukee, April first
nearly ice out, eighteen inch-deep chunks drive
against shore. We plunge in hands to our wrists.
My father and I stand atop Gunstock
our breath taken by more than December
cold, there is a brilliance, light lit, unlocking
ice from a thousand branches. We tremble,
take flight on our skis. He is an expert.
We crawl on our knees across the frozen
pond. Darkness, spotted by bubbles unburst
for half a dozen months, he has chosen
to teach me this, but I do not learn it.
He will die. I will not hear him. Cold lips.

The R.I.P.

by Kelley Jean White

The kid rolls up
his sleeves to show track marks, cigarette
burns, keloids, self-tattoos:
  Lefty 1/27/78-9/15/99 RIP
  Big Tom : 7/12/81-8/11/98 RIP
  Crow 12/5/75-11/11/94. RIP
  Rondel  9/15/80-/ / 99. RIP That’s me.
I never thought I’d make it this far.
Thought I’d let them fill in the blanks.

The Demise of the Pay Phone at the Gilford Village Store

by Kelley Jean White

First, Norm said, the Pepsi truck hit it.
The phone belonged to a private company,
he didn’t remember the name, They came
to fix it. Right after it was fixed, said Norm,
a plow truck hit it. Took it clean off the building.
He picked it up, put it in his back room and called
the company. He called a bunch of times.
After a few weeks gave up on them. Two years
later some guy came into the store looking
for his pay phone. Norm told him it was in the back.
He asked him why his company never returned
his phone calls. The guy looked at him and said,
‘Well, we’re not very good at answering the phone.’
He left. Norm never saw him or the payphone again.
Norm didn’t pay for the phone and he didn’t make
any money on it. It was a pain, really. Kids stuck
gum in the coin slot. Shredded the phone book.

Ray at Town Hall knows a lot about payphones.

by Kelley Jean White

Before he was a deputy sheriff he was security
Manager for all the payphones in all Northern
New England. There were 15,000 payphones
in Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont in 1992.
They were a major source of income for the phone
companies. Each coin box could hold $200.
Collections were taken daily by armored cars
to Boston. It was good business before cell phones.
Ray has a payphone at his home. He was given
a chrome-plated one by the company on retirement.
He says it’s hooked up and his grandchildren
get a real kick out of using it. However, it is not
the last payphone in Gilford. The last one is
in the main lodge at Gunstock ski area just across
from the Powder Keg.  Bill, in Sales and Marketing,
says ‘Maybe we’ll use it in an advertising brochure.’

Spider

by Kelley Jean White

This diner is haunted. The waitress says the paper towel machine in the bathroom starts unwinding all by itself and more than once she’s felt a little tap on her behind as she bends over the sink.And it doesn’t surprise anyone, afterall June’s father Spider died right there at the grill. Massive heart attack. (They’re always massive aren’t they.) No one remembers his real name. Except June. But he was

the cook here forty some years. Fast, a real flyer. And before that at The Bay. And the Shore. And the Sea View. He was good with his hands. Ask his second wife. Ask his third. Always building something.  And that bass fiddle. Those hands of his on the strings. More than an octave on a piano. And did you know he did clockwork? Fixed all those little springs and cogs? Built that fence out of gears and chains and bicycle wheels and pulleys and arrows all painted red and black and gold? He was a master. Arms, hands, everywhere.  Had at least a dozen arms. No one could move a job faster. Not even the quickest autumn wind.

Summer Mathematics

by Kelley Jean White

The Ice Cream Truck, its too familiar
tune, tumbled, troubled, that edge
of danger, that edge of what can be
understood, known, pushed to sharp
stick simplicity, in the narrow
and extreme night.