The Castle and the Axel

By Kimberly Gibson-Tran

I want it—the Fortress of Solitude—woven shards

that quicken into walls, fold into a closing. I clocked its

rise in the movie—a rush breaking into minutes. And mine?

Eternity. Every drawn meter a crystal ache, a binding blue.

What more have I wasted at the threshold, worrying at catastrophes?

Look—the Olympian’s bold extension, the ice’s lack of friction,

her axis spin setting marks on the mirror. The falling needed

to get here—the tarnish of sequins dragging the chilled air.

I know what it is to crack, to veer—and when Coach

asked me to dial it back [My skinned knee was an interruption

to deal with], I did yield to those hands, rough as branches—

I made myself fallow, bright with wanting.

I made myself: fallow, bright with wanting

to deal with. I did yield, too. Those hands, rough as branches,

asked me to. Dial it back: my skinned knee was an interruption,

I know. What it is—to crack, to veer…and when. Coach

took it. Hear the tarnish of sequins dragging the chilled air,

her axis spin setting marks on the mirror. The falling needed—

look—the Olympian’s bold extension, the ice’s lack. Of friction,

what more? Have I wasted at the threshold? Worrying at catastrophe’s

eternity? Every drawn meter, a crystal ache, a binding blue

rise in the movie, a rush breaking into minutes [and mine]

that quicken into walls, fold in two. Ah, closing. I clocked its

I want. “It,” the Fortress of Solitude. Woven shards.

Kimberly Gibson-Tran studied linguistics at Baylor and the University of North Texas. She’s written critically about poems with “Lines by Someone Else” and has recent creative writing appearing in Passages North, 2River, Porter House Review, Third Coast, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere. Raised in Thailand, she now lives north of Dallas, Texas.