defrosting the ice box

when my mother

would

stand

on the kitchen stool

with a bucket below,

and towels

draped along the floor

she'd

go at the ice box,

a square of frozen tundra

with a butter knife.

chipping away

at months, maybe years

of ice.

her arms

from wrist to elbow would

go red,

she'd sweat.

it was more than defrosting,

there was something

else going here,

something in her heart, 

her mind,

unsaid