Winter

The snow is yet unbroken

Upon the branches and the ground,

The scene is still and quiet,

A bird song the only sound.

The morning sun has yet to rise,

The moon has yet to fall,

One by one the stars wink out

Until none are left at all.

The day burns over the landscape

As the children come to play.

Footprints and sled marks disturb the snow,

But it was never meant to stay.

Digging Down Deep

Lightning illuminates the scene in fits and starts.

The world stinks of pine and mud,

Half-frozen rain pelts my face,

The night sky consumes the landscape.

Blisters on my hands burst,

Feeding the ground with blood.

Filthy and soaked and exhausted,

I dig nonetheless.

I need to be done and gone,

Before light,

Before conscience.

Up to my chest in the ground,

Handsfeetearsface numb

With tears and sweat and rain.

Metal head hits wood—

Polished wood—

Wipe the dirt away with my sleeve,

Exchange the shovel for the ax,

Chop at the wood.

Can’t see.
Too many shadows.

Doesn’t matter,

I found it.

Spit,

Spit at where my father’s skull should be.

Heave myself out

And walk away.

Snowstorm

Daddy broke the TV last night.

Spider web cracks across a dark screen.

I burned my finger on static,

Trying to turn it on--

Just a black and white snowstorm.

He didn’t mention it.

He might not remember.

But doesn’t he wonder?

I took the VCRs to my room.

Princesses and talking animals.

Kids’ movies, mostly.

But I was afraid he’d sell them,

And they hold parts of me.

We watched them together.