Is not the same story, but as true as what was.
In my marrow, I tell stories, this one
Begins with snowbank Christmas lights
Wuffed out or winking under white
Round houses of snow without windows
Or doors. Here’s a thing: your happiness,
Bound to you in signatures as in a book?
Maybe five signatures for a small hand
-Bound volume on acid-free paper, rather than one big
Fecking deal, like an industrial-bound single-signature
Glued, glossy, magazine,
It can’t get you through the day. You have to choose,
You turn the pages, settling in,
Reading along; it’s a different experience entirely
Than a feeling. You make your way.
Maybe you have a purpose;
Maybe your husband is as worried as mine,
Only my boy with the fever and the girl-child are sleeping
Easy through the white
Overcoat winter has gotten on, just to shush the anxiety
Of Fall’s shivering back.
My sister’s son has asthma so
When he has a cold, her impeccable posture, her tight voice,
Her crystal eyes,
All say now, rightnowGodfixthis.
We all of us can’t be saints when we think we should be, only
When there is no fight in sight
Do we have room to glory Him.
Or, we dig, during the fight, to collapse the paper ice
We’ve been standing on too long.
Owen built a snowcave today,
Stuck himself headfirst into the tunnel he’d burrowed
Into the bank, he was in up to his legs, backing out after an anxious (for me)
Fermata, with more snow in his hands . . .
Excavating with your whole body is the right idea: all that work
For a muffled place—that’s what they mean, yeah, by serene?
As if the traffic is a mile away, instead of way too way too close to your kids?
That’s what they mean, that even though you work forever to get close
You need a shelter that says, I can come in and you can’t.
Just shut up, loud and shatteringly precious world.