Ice Fishing on Europa
Leah Mell
Imagine: a moon loves a girl
who walks on water. No, this is not a prayer,
and she is not a votive candle.
She kisses like a lullaby. Dissolves.
All she has is the icepick
in her hand. A parable
is supposed to have a moral
at the end. Hard work, mercy.
On Jupiter’s loneliest moon, she drops into the ice
and falls for fifteen miles until the sea
swallows her into its center.
Then, maybe, green.