Wednesday, March 6, 2013

A Room Of My Own \ Flurries

Nancy: "Where has she gone now?"  I heard them asking one another as I made myself small and invisible in one of my hidey-holes.

A Room Of My Own

It comes to that.
A skull.

So many failed:
    nests of fern
    hollow trunks
    wickiups, like
    inverted baskets
    corners of rooms

But bone –
bone holds
now that it comes to that.
A cave of bone.
Paintings on the walls.
Words like handprints.
Painted songs, painted stories.

I close my eyes
    locked inside
    I close my eyes
close the doors of my room
    my room
    roll boulders against the doors
    my room
    my bone, my skull
    my own

Alan:  The forecast called for a day of flurries.  They kept coming, on and on, all week long – one continuous, slow, messy, inexorably accumulating drift.


Cars in the                                                                                ditch. 

waddling down

the center of the


white                                                                                    (Flurries
they said.)                                                                                    The

double yellow


you can hardly                                                                         (see)

a huge

shape approaching,

spitting salt and


“Flurries” first appeared in County Wide newspaper.

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