Late-summer birds have picked over
the berries that remain.
I grab at what’s left,
red-black juice staining my fingers,
eating,
eating,
pocketing the dry ones,
squatting until my knees ache.
I stand and stretch,
look behind me,
recognizing nothing.
Something rustles,
and I reach for the broom.
Like me,
the animal freezes.
We stay that way
until my shoulders throb.
Then
a jackrabbit leaps beside me.
I drop the broom,
fall back,
glimpse it dashing zigzag.
My breath comes short
and painful.
“It was a rabbit,” I say,
but the words mean nothing
to the weakness creeping up my legs.
Here’s what’s true:
Already
the evening sky is pushing back the daylight.
Gooseflesh tingles on my arms.
I don’t know where I am,
I can’t know where I’m going.
And suddenly,
I’m running
back!
I’m running—
my heels slam into the hard-packed earth.
Running—
my breath’s jagged.
Running—
birds scatter from their grass nests.
I need those walls around me!
The pillowcase slaps my back.
Pain rips through my ankle.
I tumble to the ground
and curse the hole I’ve stepped in.
The sky is almost black when,
limping,
I reach the soddy.
83
My ankle’s purple.
Those stupid boots.
84
Fetching water today,
I catch a glimpse of myself in the stream:
hair hanging in clumps,
dress ripped at one shoulder.
I haven’t used the washtub since
the Oblingers left.
My eyes study the dirty girl.
85
I finger the last few currants
still in my pocket.
Maybe I could go back and check for more.
If I hadn’t been startled,
if I’d stuck it out a little longer,
I’d have bulging apron pockets.
Maybe I’d have reached another soddy.
That neighbor Mr. Chapman’s gone,
but if I’d found his place,
surely he’d have some jerky,
a tin of soda crackers left behind.
But now,
with this ankle,
I can’t go far.
And the wolf.
I shiver,
remembering how frightened I was
of just a little rabbit.
I sit beside the stream
dipping my fingers in the icy water.
In summer,
Pa and Hiram bring in trout,
speckled bodies writhing
in their hands.
I trail my fingers,
wiggling them like Hiram showed me.
Nothing happens.
86
I run,
holding my skirts above my knees.
I holler
and skip
and make faces at the outhouse.
I slam the door,
take a spoon to the pots and pans.
I whistle,
I spit,
think up as many unladylike things as I can,
and do them.
Out in the open.
For the whole empty world to see.
87
A thin sheet of ice crept across
the water pail last night.
I take the dipper and push through
to scoop a drink,
then stir the fire
for breakfast.
The sky
holds the high white
of snow.
It is too early
for this.
I am not ready.
88
Maybe there won’t be a storm
after all.
Autumn is devious.
Calm afternoons with no hint of breaking
can turn violent,
bringing wind,
ushering in rain
and even snow.
Or maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention
and I’ll get trapped out here
in
a
blizzard.
On
my
own.
Maybe May B.
Maybe
89
Snow is falling.
Why did I not prepare
when the weather first turned?
I have left
so many things
undone.
Maybe I should check the garden
for one last potato.
I should have gathered more chips to burn
yesterday.
90
Wind runs across the prairie,
swirling snowflakes and brittle grass.
I push through the icy gale,
force open the barn door.
Only one bale of hay is still intact.
I squat to lift it,
hardly seeing where I’m going,
and make it to the soddy more by memory
than sight.
My sore ankle complains.
Back in the barn,
I kneel in the scattered hay,
scooping armfuls into my dress,
and press the hem against my waist.
Outside again,
the blinding white whips at my eyes.
I bend my head for some protection.
Snow gathers at the soddy door.
I shove it open with a shoulder,
dump the hay,
and turn toward the barn
again and again,
until what hasn’t blown away
is scattered
across the puncheon floor.
Once,
after weeks of rain,
Pa had Hiram and me
twist hay
into bundles for burning.
Now I sit in almost-darkness,
binding hay in logs
that won’t flame out,
as just a handful would.
Stepping over
piles of hay bundles,
bits of loose grass,
I reach into the barrel
for the last apple.
91
For a moment I think
I’ve left the lamp burning,
but the brightness isn’t
exactly the same.
Around me,
it’s as clear as midday,
The papered window alight.
I slip out of bed.
Bits of hay stick to my feet
as I pull open the door.
A thin layer of snow blankets the entrance,
sparkling in the morning sun.
If only
I’d not panicked that day
I tried to go.
But with the snow,
it’s too late to consider again.
Whether or not I want to be here,
I am.
92
The sun is out.
Ma’s boots leave
soft gray marks
in the melting snow.
It is too early for
winter to last.
I will be ready next time.
93
My arm pricks as I lower it into the stream;
the water’s even colder than before.
I press my body to the bank,
trying to cast no shadow,
/> reaching deeper with my hand.
Why did I never try for fish with Pa and Hiram?
Soon I can hardly feel
my wiggling fingers,
but I keep moving,
hoping trout will notice.
Something flits below the surface,
curves gracefully,
slips by.
I watch for movement farther upstream
and let my fingers dance
like moss,
like water bugs,
like tadpoles beating tiny tails.
Then I spy one!
It’s smooth,
a ribbon of color
running
down its middle.
My fingers wave;
it approaches.
I am close enough to stroke its belly,
and with one quick jerk,
I grab that fish and throw it on the bank.
94
Three fish—
My stomach’s full
for the first time in weeks.
95
I’ve thought through arithmetic
and worked some problems on my slate.
I’ve recited states
alphabetically
and
in the order of their joining the Union.
My reading I’ve avoided
ever since that day
nothing worked right.
Lamplight shines on my book,
its blue cover frayed at the corners,
the spine a lighter shade
in the middle
where my hand grips,
finger smudges on the back.
I examine it like it’s the first time
Ma handed it to me,
the reader she brought
all the way to Kansas.
She didn’t know then,
I didn’t know,
the tricks words would play
on me.
What if I were to pretend
the struggles never happened?
What if I were to open this book,
go back,
start
fresh?
My fingers feel almost as chilled as they did
this afternoon
under the water,
but didn’t I pull three fish to the surface?
Didn’t I gut them,
cook them up,
and eat my fill?
Surely
these words
can’t be as difficult
to grasp,
as slippery to work with.
I find the page that tripped me weeks ago,
press along the spine.
I shut my eyes,
breathe deeply,
tell myself nothing will change
or surprise me
when I open my eyes.
No one is listening.
I have need—
No.
I have been informed that a stragner …
a stranger
named Goodman …
Slowly, May,
don’t go on what you remember.
The words begin to swim,
but I hold fast.
Just one sentence to push through.
… have been informed that a stranger
of the name of Goodman has settled near you.
I press the cover closed with both hands.
My heart thrums
as I turn down the lamp,
slip into bed,
filled to bursting.
96
From the calendar I tear away
one month,
then two.
Is it October
or November?
Time was made
for others,
not for someone
all alone.
97
The fish rest deeper now.
I cook beans day after day.
Sometimes I bake corn bread,
but the meal’s getting low.
If I eat just a little,
there will be food for weeks to come.
My mind knows this,
but my fingers shake with every bite,
and I’ve taken to checking my rations
over and over,
licking my finger,
sweeping it under the cornmeal sack,
hoping for a few more grains.
The tin of peaches,
still tucked behind the sugar,
I won’t open until I must.
I pull it down from the shelf,
hold it in my hand.
“Peaches,” I read aloud.
“Fresh picked.”
My voice sounds funny,
like that odd instrument
Mr. Wolcott brought to the literary social last year.
He pulled and squeezed
the black thing;
it opened like a folded piece of cloth.
Accordion,
I think he called it.
“Peaches.
Fresh picked,” I say again.
I move my finger under each word:
“Peaches.
Fresh picked!”
98
Ma would be horrified,
but Ma’s not here to see
I’ve slept most of the morning away.
It would be nice
to lounge and doze
as long as I feel like staying abed,
but it’s more burden than comfort
because of all the time to remember:
When Teacher came,
I hoped she would be
like Miss Sanders,
but I should have known
from the start:
Teacher
wasn’t the same.
“I want to see what each of
you is capable of,” Teacher announced,
even before she sat down.
“Youngest ones first.
We’ll work our way to the top of the school.”
With a ruler she pointed to the first row.
“Stand and recite the alphabet.”
Jemmy Thompson’s lip
turned down,
the way a newborn’s
does before it starts wailing,
but he managed to make it through.
“Older grades.”
Teacher eyed us in the back.
Rita Howard had to start over three times,
her voice too soft
for Teacher’s liking.
Teacher scolded Hiram for rushing
through his piece.
And then it was my turn.
I opened to “The Voice of the Wind.”
With Hiram’s help,
I’d read it through just the night before.
Did Teacher sense
what everyone thought
as I walked—
knees like water—
to the front of the room?
Their thoughts weren’t audible,
but I heard them just the same.
I took a deep breath.
Maybe this time I could do it.
Maybe Teacher would never have to know.
I held my reader in front of me,
high enough so I wouldn’t have to see
their faces,
both elbows squeezed to my sides.
“I am the when.
Wind.
I am wind and I …”
Rita covered her mouth
with her prissy little fingers.
“… I am the wind and I—”
Teacher rapped the ruler on her desk.
“Excuse me, child.
What is your name?”
Warm tears splashed my feet.
Something was broken inside.
My new teacher knew.
Just like my reading,
my words were slow to form.
“May-vis, ma’am.”
“Well, May-vis,” she said,
like my name tasted s
our,
“I think you’re sitting in the wrong part
of the schoolroom.
Kindly move to the second row.”
“Ma’am?”
I turned my head just a little,
not wanting to show my tears.
She was seating me with the little ones?
“I said”—
she spoke louder now,
like I was hard of hearing—
“move to the front of the room.”
I glanced at Hiram.
He shrugged,
but his eyes hardly met mine.
I fetched my slate
and slid in next to Jemmy,
whose feet didn’t yet meet the floor.
99
It’s the noise that wakes me
in the darkness close as a shroud.
Wind whips about the soddy;
I imagine I hear the walls groan.
Prairie quiet
is rarely silent.
May B. Page 5
