Ice Cube Tray

White, clean, meticulous container. You contain
16 cubicles, 16 solid clouds. You Flex, you spit,
You are reused. You do not tire of your boxes,
Your walls, & partitions, your generations of ice
Cubes, harvested. 16 pockets, 16 names, 16 slight curves
At the well of each envelope. 16 sky lights. 16 inhales.
16 uniforms, definitions, ditches. If only I could contain more
Than A finger, toe, or lock of hair inside of one
of your 16 egg shells. If only I could hold my breath
and curl like water from the tap
into you. A drip may escape, and then slide
down your ladderless surface
into one of 16 wombs. A solid whole, my entirety
transformed into a tooth of ice. My arms frozen
to my sides, my forehead pasted to my knees,
there’d be no pull to slid my elbows up, to press my palms
on the ledges to lift myself up, over the walls
you have constructed just for me.