*
*
Red tail hawks live solo
Except during breeding season
In winter they perch on wires
Fluffed, hunched shoulders
Searching the snow crust
To capture a careless vole or mouse
*
I live solo now
My breeding season long done
In winter I huddle in woolens
Cocooned with hunched shoulders
Searching for the words, pen in hand,
To seize a skittering thought
*
*
from Saturday afternoon to Monday morning,
Eight inches or more, the right kind of snow
for snowmen and angels
I turned up the heat another degree
got the snow shovel out of the basement
made a pot of chicken soup with white beans and onions
*
In 1941, Leningrad was besieged by the Nazis
Women, children, and men too old to fight
slowly starved during long, freezing winters
eating sunflower seed cakes made for cattle
burning furniture for warmth
Bombs fell.
Frozen bodies made mounds
on snowy streets.
*
Here I shoveled a path to the car
ate a bowl of soup
The siege lasted 827 days
Finnish and German forces
cut off all supply lines
*
When the snowplow clears the driveway,
should I go to the store
for some more pears?
*
*
Alex pulls the gray cap down over his eyebrows. This snow can’t last forever. His feet are wet and freezing in the sodden sneakers. Gram was right about the boots, but Alex had been getting high with friends so he clicked off her voice on his iPhone. Blah, blah, blah, that’s what they sounded like, Gram and Dad. Blah, blah, blah. Don’t you need your boots? It’s snowing! Have you looked for a job? If we give you money, don’t use it to buy cigarettes. Blah, blah, blah.
Alex walks past houses all lit up and glowing warm against the night and the falling snow. He imagines being inside with a happy, noisy family, and he knows he’d like it for an hour or so. But then he’d start to feel edgy, and everyone would be looking at him, criticizing his clothes or what he did, and asking him about his life. He’d have to leave. Like Christmas Day at Gram’s. All the noise and laughter and all those questions about plans and jobs and school. Blah, blah, blah. Alex had left before the pies and ice cream.
Alex says aloud, “I’m a survivor.” He knows he can stretch twenty bucks into two or three days of hanging out in town. His friend at the taco place slips him the leftovers. And the diner has a breakfast special that’s under $5.00. He gets by. His stuff is stashed behind the couch in the coffee bar. He doesn’t have much stuff. Alex is proud that he’s not attached to material objects. Except his necklace with the old house key. This is one thing he can’t lose. It opens the door to his mom’s loft in the City. Right now he’s pissed at her because she kicked him out. But he may want to go hang out there sometime.
Alex bums a cigarette off a drunk student who is leaning against the wall outside of the pub. He keeps walking. His iPhone dings with a text message. It’s from Gram. R U OK? Call me. Alex decides not to answer. He already has a place to stay tonight. He picked up this coed from NYU. It’s her last night before the dorms reopen down on Union Square. She’s got a friend whose roommate is out of town. Alex can sleep in the girl’s bed for one night. Lisa—that’s the coed’s name—says he can stay there if he takes a shower first. Alex needs the bed but he’s a bit insulted. Like he smells or something. How long has he been wearing these clothes anyway? When did he and Gram choose them at the Salvation Army? Was it a week ago? They picked out a good shirt, a jacket and tie, and a pair of black slacks. The clothes were supposed to be for job-hunting. Job-hunting. That’s another one of those interminable lectures: wash your hair, brush your teeth. Always check back with the secretary or the manager. Blah, blah, blah. They just never shut up.
The thing about February is
lashing its white icy tail
asleep in a basket of sticks
unopened
yet potent
as a wind bearing the north.
The thing about February is
its longing for change
leaning toward anything different
anything beside the silvering cold
a short haircut
a new recipe
a death.
The thing about February is
the constricting band that binds
hands to hips
ankle to ankle
the urge to sleep
until spring.
The thing about February is
the garden nursery store
a rack of seed packets
but no potting soil
no flower pots
no saucers.
The thing about February is
the crust of soiled snow
hungry birds fighting for seeds
while overtaken by weariness
an old lady leaves lost for home.
The Karakesh Chronicles
Available from
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Words align on the edges of our scarves
fragile crystals, sharp, faceted,
coated in ice, each corner distinct,
a march of glass fragments,
broken when spoken.
Night frosts the woolen threads.
Breath freezes into blame
that can’t swallow back.
Snow crust crunches.
Scarves bunch beneath pursed lips.
Words too cold to be lost
Preserved in unforgettable permafrost.
Tangled Magic 