May B. (17 page)

      The snow muffles all noise,

      so I am surprised when I hear the sound outside.

      Scratching,

      not the same as before,

      that was dry claws

      on dry boards.

      Softer now,

      like a rake dragged over freshly cut hay,

      this scratching is persistent,

      more urgent.

      The wolf.

      Can he smell the little food I have left?

      But I know better.

      He has no interest in corn bread and beans.

      Wolves are carnivores.

      They hunt rabbits, buffalo.

      Pa’s careful of an evening to bring Bessie to the barn.

      Pain claws at my middle.

      I know hunger too.

      I’m as hollow as a washtub

      turned over to dry.

      I could make some biscuits,

      or lick a handful of sugar,

      but I reach for the peaches,

      the last special treat

      left by the Oblingers.

      I trace my fingers over

      
Fresh picked

      and say the words at the same time.

      Sometimes with Miss Sanders,

      I’d try different ways to read.

      Once I held the rag she used

      to wipe the blackboard.

      When I struggled with a sound,

      I’d squeeze the grimy cloth into a ball

      and try again.

      I don’t know how,

      but it helped the letters fall into place.

      When Teacher came I’d focus so hard,

      trying to imagine that balled-up rag.

      I was ashamed

      
to stand with the little ones

      in the front of the room.

      I knew more than any of them,

      more than Rita,

      and Avery,

      and Hiram,

      put together.

      Those days

      I’d stumble some,

      other times I’d make it through,

      my fingernails leaving half-moons in my palm.

      The peaches are cold,

      smooth,

      sweet.

      I eat them with an ache in my stomach,

      and swallow like Ma herself

      spooned them up.

      The buffalo chips are gone;

      these hay twists must last.

      No amount of modesty can keep me

      from going through Mrs. Oblinger’s trunk.

      I pull at a corner of bright fabric

      until it spreads across my lap.

      The red dress.

      Did Mrs. Oblinger make it back to Ohio?

      I pull her dress over the three I already wear

      and smooth it down,

      remembering her soft hands,

      oval fingernails,

      never broken on a scrub board.

      She hated me,

      I think.

      She thought I hated her.

      Did I,

      really?

      Were we so very different?

      I take a pair of Mr. Oblinger’s stockings

      and wear them over my mittens.

      
I wrap his muffler around my head,

      burrow in the quilts and coat,

      and rock before the stove.

      Last night I dreamed Pa’d come

      to get me.

      He’d brought a shovel and dug,

      scraping the snow

      like a farmer breaking ground.

      Again I rinse the pots.

      The dishwater stretches

      the opening in the snow wall

      each time I pour it in.

      The pots grow heavier

      as I lift them.

      What I wouldn’t give for a bite of meat,

      or that bug-infested cabbage.

      I hope for a hint of light

      reaching through the hole,

      a reminder of the world outside.

      Since the blizzard day,

      I haven’t opened my reader,

      but now,

      with a small scoop of beans

      on the stove

      and two biscuits from yesterday,

      I sit in the rocker before the fire,

      thankful for hot coffee,

      and for the flicker of light

      cast on the cover

      of my book.

      The pages fall open in my lap,

      the spine empty in the center

      where I ripped the paper out.

      I flip back to see

      which poems remain:

      “Home and Its Memories,”

      “The Battle of Hastings,”

      “Light Out of Darkness.”

      I glance up at this last title,

      taking in the shadows around me.

      In this place,

      I’ve met darkness like never before.

      I understand light

      
because of these months

      here.

      I know this book,

      remember what comes after each piece,

      so that as I’m turning through,

      I feel the space of missing pages getting nearer.

      I know what shares the other side of “Light Out of Darkness.”

      Most of “The Voice of the Wind” is intact.

      I run my finger under each word,

      The ones that cost me my place at school,

      that filled me with despair.

      I know it by heart,

      but I read it anyway,

      trust my voice to lead me word by word:

      I go slowly,

      invite the words to find

      a home

      between

      each breath.

      No one is here

      to listen,

      or laugh.

      I’m not whispering,

      not mumbling,

      I own this poem.

      
The words come faster.

      Sometimes I twist them,

      have to stop and try again.

      But why should there be shame in that?

      I’m doing it!

      I’m reading!

      The first three stanzas remain,

      the fourth left halfway:

      I know the rest I threw in the fire,

      how the wind can lull,

      can cheat and trick.

      But today,

      it’s my turn to make my own ending.

      I tuck a finger inside my reader

      and reach for the basket of hay twists.