May B.

by Caroline Rose

  I subtract a week,

  so as not to raise my hopes too high.

  If Pa knew,

  he’d be here,

  faster than any train,

  any buffalo stampede from the early prairie days,

  faster than Hiram at school races,

  to take me home.

  115

  I remove the pots from the stove,

  letting the water cool just a bit,

  then scrub at the crusted film left behind.

  Mess slops on the floor;

  wet patches bloom on the bodice of my dress.

  I have no place to throw this filth,

  no water to rinse clean.

  For the first time since the blizzard morning,

  I pull open the door,

  dreading to see things left as they were before.

  A shiny layer of ice on the solid wall of snow

  reminds me of the water I threw.

  With the broom handle,

  I stab and pick

  until I’ve made

  a deeper hole.

  I pour in the wash water.

  The space stretches just a little.

  I fill the pots with the snow I’ve scattered

  and put them on the stove.

  116

  The snow muffles all noise,

  so I am surprised when I hear the sound outside.

  Scratching,

  not the same as before,

  that was dry claws

  on dry boards.

  Softer now,

  like a rake dragged over freshly cut hay,

  this scratching is persistent,

  more urgent.

  The wolf.

  Can he smell the little food I have left?

  But I know better.

  He has no interest in corn bread and beans.

  Wolves are carnivores.

  They hunt rabbits, buffalo.

  Pa’s careful of an evening to bring Bessie to the barn.

  Pain claws at my middle.

  I know hunger too.

  117

  I’m as hollow as a washtub

  turned over to dry.

  I could make some biscuits,

  or lick a handful of sugar,

  but I reach for the peaches,

  the last special treat

  left by the Oblingers.

  I trace my fingers over

  Fresh picked

  and say the words at the same time.

  Sometimes with Miss Sanders,

  I’d try different ways to read.

  Once I held the rag she used

  to wipe the blackboard.

  When I struggled with a sound,

  I’d squeeze the grimy cloth into a ball

  and try again.

  I don’t know how,

  but it helped the letters fall into place.

  When Teacher came I’d focus so hard,

  trying to imagine that balled-up rag.

  I was ashamed

  to stand with the little ones

  in the front of the room.

  I knew more than any of them,

  more than Rita,

  and Avery,

  and Hiram,

  put together.

  Those days

  I’d stumble some,

  other times I’d make it through,

  my fingernails leaving half-moons in my palm.

  The peaches are cold,

  smooth,

  sweet.

  I eat them with an ache in my stomach,

  and swallow like Ma herself

  spooned them up.

  118

  The buffalo chips are gone;

  these hay twists must last.

  No amount of modesty can keep me

  from going through Mrs. Oblinger’s trunk.

  I pull at a corner of bright fabric

  until it spreads across my lap.

  The red dress.

  Did Mrs. Oblinger make it back to Ohio?

  I pull her dress over the three I already wear

  and smooth it down,

  remembering her soft hands,

  oval fingernails,

  never broken on a scrub board.

  She hated me,

  I think.

  She thought I hated her.

  Did I,

  really?

  Were we so very different?

  I take a pair of Mr. Oblinger’s stockings

  and wear them over my mittens.

  I wrap his muffler around my head,

  burrow in the quilts and coat,

  and rock before the stove.

  119

  Last night I dreamed Pa’d come

  to get me.

  He’d brought a shovel and dug,

  scraping the snow

  like a farmer breaking ground.

  120

  Again I rinse the pots.

  The dishwater stretches

  the opening in the snow wall

  each time I pour it in.

  The pots grow heavier

  as I lift them.

  What I wouldn’t give for a bite of meat,

  or that bug-infested cabbage.

  I hope for a hint of light

  reaching through the hole,

  a reminder of the world outside.

  121

  Since the blizzard day,

  I haven’t opened my reader,

  but now,

  with a small scoop of beans

  on the stove

  and two biscuits from yesterday,

  I sit in the rocker before the fire,

  thankful for hot coffee,

  and for the flicker of light

  cast on the cover

  of my book.

  The pages fall open in my lap,

  the spine empty in the center

  where I ripped the paper out.

  I flip back to see

  which poems remain:

  “Home and Its Memories,”

  “The Battle of Hastings,”

  “Light Out of Darkness.”

  I glance up at this last title,

  taking in the shadows around me.

  In this place,

  I’ve met darkness like never before.

  I understand light

  because of these months

  here.

  I know this book,

  remember what comes after each piece,

  so that as I’m turning through,

  I feel the space of missing pages getting nearer.

  I know what shares the other side of “Light Out of Darkness.”

  Most of “The Voice of the Wind” is intact.

  I run my finger under each word,

  The ones that cost me my place at school,

  that filled me with despair.

  I know it by heart,

  but I read it anyway,

  trust my voice to lead me word by word:

  I am

  the wind,

  and I

  blow,

  blow,

  blow,

  Driving

  the rain

  and the

  beautiful

  snow;

  I go slowly,

  invite the words to find

  a home

  between

  each breath.

  No one is here

  to listen,

  or laugh.

  I’m not whispering,

  not mumbling,

  I own this poem.

  Making confusion

  wherever I go;

  Roaring

  and moaning,

  Wailing and groaning.

  The words come faster.

  Sometimes I twist them,

  have to stop and try again.

  But why should there be shame in that?

  I’m doing it!

  I’m reading!

  Rounding the hill-top, I rush down the dale,

  Ruffling the river that waters the v
ale,

  Driving before me the white-winged sail.

  The first three stanzas remain,

  the fourth left halfway:

  ’Cross desolate deserts I wildly roam;

  Wand’ring earth’s corners, where nothing calls home,

  I whisper in secret; I watch all alone,

  I know the rest I threw in the fire,

  how the wind can lull,

  can cheat and trick.

  But today,

  it’s my turn to make my own ending.

  Part Three

  122

  I tuck a finger inside my reader

  and reach for the basket of hay twists.

  There are three left.

  I need a plan.

  123

  I hold my bundled hands

  against the stove door,

  taking every last bit of 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 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.

  13
4

  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.