Ice Men

by Robert J. Parillo / February 15th, 2026

The ice men kept coming, dozens of them,
a thermic surge consumed with attitudes and futures that won’t open
imposing their stature
riding down
bodies and histories
not believing anything we told them,
shriveling language without modesty—

after burial—after comments—after investigations,
sputtering nerves
eyes bending, unable to coalesce,
unable to capture
the realized horror—
we don’t need a warrant, bro . . .
and later on, the ice men
a rabble lounging under a haematic sound
daylighting without much difficulty,
belly scratching—
ventriloquial.

Robert J. Parillo is a New Jersey–based writer. He writes about civic fracture, spiritual authority, and the pressure systems of contemporary life. He spent more than twenty-five years working in newspaper editorial, production, and circulation departments. Read other articles by Robert J..

This article was posted on Sunday, February 15th, 2026 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.