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

Bone.

It comes to that.

Bone.

A skull.

So many failed:

    nests of fern

    hollow trunks

    wickiups, like

    inverted baskets

    thickets

    corners of rooms

    notebooks

    frostbitten

    collapsed

    invaded

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

    invisible

    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.

Flurries

Cars in the                                                                                ditch. 

    

Cars

waddling down

the center of the

road,

                                                                                           everything

white                                                                                    (Flurries

          

they said.)                                                                                    The

double yellow

line

you can hardly                                                                         (see)

a huge

shape approaching,

spitting salt and

dirt.

“Flurries” first appeared in County Wide newspaper.