The weather was quiet and calm when I left picking my way to the market Bread and cheese and milk for my coffee to last another day swing in a plastic bag hanging from my wrist my hands clenched deeply in my pockets I am cautious I pick up and put down my booted feet leaving frankenstein shapes in the compliant snow and pause drinking in the quietude It is the second day after a memory of blinds rattling against the windows in spite of double panes and storm sashes Of cats curled tightly against my hips through the long wintry night I have pulled my heaviest socks over my trousers ringed with insulating snow and ice breaking as I walk into little balls—like popcorn a remembered technique from childhood uninvited bits of snow have crept into my shoes Then—without warning I am blind sighted by a blast of frozen air I bind my numbing face— a lesson I learned in the desert during a sandstorm Pulling my muffler tight and knotting it I try not to breathe until it passes—and I can feel the sun again making my cautious way across the street blinking away the little bits of cruel ice that attach themselves to my fattened lashes avoiding the black icy spots where the snow has departed in little gusts by the exhaled breath of the tiny snow ogres who followed us when we were children on Long Island Last week I slipped and fell on the ice ass over tea kettle and froze to the sidewalk waiting for the ambulance they covered me with delicious heated blankets in the hospital—while my teeth chattered like castanets The world is soundless and benign once again as I walk towards home eye on the beacon my red door pink now through the haze of white Ah I have arrived at the walkway cleared by the dark huddled figure of Jose before the sun came up and mounded dutifully on both sides On my right lies a small bit of yellow in the shape of a wing—a butterfly wing I stand staring at it my muffler hardening against my mouth What are the odds that it would survive and land here carried on the wind scrolled across it in black a secret code acrostic heraldic cabalistic I cry catching an icy breath wanting to give it refuge wanting to touch it I bow to the infinite yud hay vav hay it will be gone in a breath of yellow dust I reach out, I cannot help it mittens frozen into boxing gloves numb and useless hands inside a yellow gum wrapper glinting in the snow a moment ago was the summer wing of a butterfly Montclair, NJ, 2005
Hiding Out