The Maynard
Fall 2019

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Glory and the Neighbors

Outside this gathering, the cry of wind. Snow shoved
in ruffles; we were all snow and all shovels. Neighbors rustled
through the glass door past rabbit tracks. We needed
to unbundle the jagged fences
of our breathing, to stand by the heat blown from the linoleum.

Tom stayed weary and kneaded in his knitted cap
and blue veins, and mouthed only winter.
Linda kept lisping her desert accent, and argued
with her unlikely brother. The littlest, Glory, missing
two front teeth, held hands
with her mother. I heard them all, and the music of dirt
in our past—everyone bent on the empty
horizon. Sausage was served and people put cream
in their coffee. The tea cake marbled
on clear plastic platters. All the cold was suspended.

Neighbors remapped with their sagging
full plates. Scrambled eggs fell together
in damp yellow batches. I looked out at the void
and our dry undisciplined air, the sifted flakes piling,
climbing telephone poles and juniper trees, concealing
our homes, each sliver of road, and the vectoring basics
of this ancient village. People stood
and remembered, shouting excerpts of last year’s superlatives.

That was it. The year
starting with innocence. The other concluding
its muffins with endless opulent snow. I put on my coat and cold face
and entered the white, put the white back
inside me, its flurry, its near-silent singing.