Snow slips from the branch arms
Flumps against the powder
Makes odd holes in the ground
My brother’s body is contorted
He is looking up at me
His leg is pointing down
His skis are crossed, a crux
An inverted lauburu
‘I think there is an icicle in my leg’
I nod, watching the wound
It is similar in its sharpness
But is also red like raspberry rippled
Ice-cream, the helicopter’s blades
Wind down to the ground
They are also crossed like lauburu
The morphine makes his eyes go out
I ski to the bottom of the mountain
With a body filled with ice-cream
