May B. by Caroline Rose

heat
          before I leave the rocker.
          My feet are small enough
          to wear three sets of stockings,
          even if one boot doesn’t button properly
          over the ankle I twisted months ago.
          I pocket the last two biscuits.
          They will need to last me.

124

          Pa’s coming,
          but I don’t know when.
          I shove the broom handle up
          into the icy hole beyond the door
          again
          and again
          until my shoulders burn.
          Nothing changes.
          Maybe if I took a spoon,
          put it in the stove,
          wrapped the handle in a bit of cloth,
          I could
          slowly
          dig
          my
          way
          out.
          That wolf is somewhere out there.
          I burn myself through cloth and stockings.
          The spoon’s heat is drawn almost instantly
          once it touches snow.
          What melts drips down my sleeves.
          I return to the stove,
          heat the spoon,
          scrape,
          scrape,
          scrape,
          until I’ve formed a hole deep enough
          to try the broom handle again.
          And though I thrust the handle with all I have left,
          the snow ceiling still doesn’t budge.

125

          Maybe it is senseless digging out.
          I am fifteen miles from home,
          a distance a body could cover in one day
          if nourished
          and warm
          and familiar with the way.
          I might as well set out for the Pacific;
          it’s so big,
          I reckon it would be easier to find.
          My cropped hair falls across my face.
          Senseless or not,
          I will do what I have to,
          what is right,
          this moment,
          for me.

126

          How long do I heat the spoon,
          pick at the snow,
          swing the broom handle?
          I’m shouting
          like the wall will listen,
          “Stupid blizzard. Danged ice!”
          My hands blister beneath their layers.

127

          The hole is big as my head.
          How deep is this snow?

128

          I’ve been so careful
          not to waste the candles,
          but that time is over now.
          There are two left,
          almost stubs.
          I light one,
          hold it in the snow hole.
          Water drips
          and the candle sputters out.
          I light the second one and set it on the table,
          then touch them wick to wick.
          Every time the flame goes out,
          I light my candle
          and hold it to the snow again.
          It is hard to tell what is sun,
          what is candle,
          what is pure hope.
          The sound of the broomstick
          against the snow
          is less like a drum.
          This is the soft thump
          of kneading bread.
          I swing the handle
          faster and harder
          with a power that has waited until now.
          Suddenly
          the broom handle sticks,
          and I must yank it loose.
          Snow tumbles down,
          blessing me like
          a downpour on parched fields.
          The sky is blue!

129

          I slip into my coat,
          pack my pillowcase,
          then straighten the soddy before I go.
          If Mr. Oblinger does return someday,
          I want him to find things in their proper places:
          the bench tucked under the table,
          the rocker angled properly.
          There is nothing I can do with the dirty bean pot
          except fill it with fresh snow.
          I leave one quilt folded
          over