Her eyes were huge, whites
of a blizzard. I served dinner on a door. Parents,
brothers, sisters, cousins arrived from many directions,
riding in on their horses, mules or tanks.
They shed their matted wool and fur,
hanging onto the door by their elbows, last knuckles.
The air had bubbles in it,
beery spaces where conversation skipped.
The men were ravenous, laughed too loudly.
The women rearranged the tableware.
The children pressed their foreheads to the door.
Steam was an engine: what could be, what could not.
Somehow we made room for more.
We prayed our pathetic grace. Platters were passed
around the door, exclaimed.
My niece’s eyes were too big for food.
She sat in her father’s lap. Why, she asked,
do none of you speak of my dead mother?
Fork tines tolled. Our breath plumed
in slow motion. I felt for the icicle in my heart.
Everyone made way at the door.
My niece and I passed through to a pond
frozen over, gliding across ice, snow flying in large clumps.
Twinkling lights, laden with white, shone through snowy shells.
Your mother liked the snow, I told her. We skated
turns on the ice, snowflakes splotching our cheeks, chin, lips.
My niece stuck out her tongue.