May B. by Caroline Rose Page A

the back of the rocker.
          The other will offer some protection outside.
          I cling to the lower lip of the hole with one hand
          and dig the toe of my boot into the snow wall,
          heaving the quilt,
          then the pillowcase
          up and out,
          and last of all,
          the broom.
          The sun is low in the east,
          the sky is clear;
          I begin.

130

          I walk toward the morning sun,
          glancing over my shoulder at the mound of snow
          that is the soddy.
          Soon,
          it is impossible to say what is house
          and what is prairie.
          There’s no creek to guide me.
          Nothing is familiar,
          but I push forward still.
          Ma’s dainty boots don’t make walking easy,
          but I am grateful for their cover.
          Ice slips into the place I left unbuttoned,
          and I tug one sock
          and try to fasten a few buttons more.
          There.
          Just to my right,
          paw prints in the snow.

131

          He’s still out here.
          Was he separated from his pack?
          Is he the weak one?
          Has he eaten since the storm?
          I secure the pillowcase
          within the bodice of the red dress.
          The quilt’s folded over my coat,
          wrapped from shoulders to elbows,
          my threadbare armor.
          I grip the broom handle in both hands,
          ready.

132

          The sun is higher now in the eastern sky.
          A horse and a sleigh
          have been through recently.
          I’m unsure where these tracks came from
          or where they lead,
          but I can tell someone’s traveled in two directions,
          has doubled back.
          I stay with the sleigh tracks
          until they turn north,
          away from home.
          I could follow,
          try to catch up,
          but I won’t.
          I’m going home.
          It’s dangerous,
          but it’s what I’ve chosen,
          and I gather strength from knowing this.

133

          I lift each boot
          just to plunge it deep into the snow again,
          a high-step march that hardly travels forward.
          The broom handle is my cane.
          My forehead burns.
          My chemise, drenched with sweat,
          is a frigid layer against my skin.
          And no matter how much snow I suck,
          my stomach isn’t tricked.
          Wolf,
          show your face.
          This would be an easy fight
          for you.

134

          When the sun is behind me,
          I rest for a bit.
          The quilt is both my shawl and cushion.
          Even though I’ve traveled since just after daybreak,
          I feel no closer
          to my home.
          And I can’t possibly know
          exactly where home is.

135

          The quilt is soaked through,
          but I’m not yet ready to start again.
          The western horizon, both blue and white,
          is so bright it’s hard to look at long.
          The only tracks I see are my own.
          I rock for warmth,
          pulling the quilt about me like a hood.
          What if this is the end?
          What if I’ve fought my way from that prison for nothing,
          just to die out here?
          Tears freeze to my eyelashes
          as I stumble to my feet,
          which are weighty as sacks of flour.
          My legs are wet
          from stockings to bloomers.

136

          My shadow extends long before me.
          If I’m not home soon,
          I will not last the night.

137

          Finally I turn,
          face the