Chill narrows of road under the grey smear of sky. Last gallon of milk, last loaf. Shovels dug out, propped in entryways. Each taper trimmed and placed, lantern located. An oil truck huffing as it fills up the tank. Generators humming like birds, parking ban bedding down like a cat. Pickup trucks with plows jutting forth like stag beetles trundle through the streets. Everyone passing in puffy coat, boots, flannel, double-breasted wool. Cans and jars in perfect facing rows. Colors dull and muted. On every side street, windshield wipers extending antennae into the cold. Snowblowers revved and growling, sure to be functional. Soup stock bubbling, chicken fat a glistening gold film. One house: tarps stretched over car windshields, huddled to make a clear path from garage to street. The hush of waiting for a radio signal, for the forecast we question, channel-clicking quickly.
breath mists in frigid air
everything out of our hands
the sky will say now
breath mists in frigid air
everything out of our hands
the sky will say now
Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet currently living in Pennsylvania. Xe has two microchapbooks, love songs for godzilla and Thanatology; xer work has appeared in Poet Lore, Glass Poetry, FreezeRay Poetry, and elsewhere. Gretchen enjoys writing about gender, history, myth, science, space, and unusual connections. Twitter: @daft_rockwell; Website: gretchenrockwell.com.