May B. Read Online Free Page B

ground
          and curse the hole I’ve stepped in.
          The sky is almost black when,
          limping,
          I reach the soddy.

83

          My ankle’s purple.
          Those stupid boots.

84

          Fetching water today,
          I catch a glimpse of myself in the stream:
          hair hanging in clumps,
          dress ripped at one shoulder.
          I haven’t used the washtub since
          the Oblingers left.
          My eyes study the dirty girl.

85

          I finger the last few currants
          still in my pocket.
          Maybe I could go back and check for more.
          If I hadn’t been startled,
          if I’d stuck it out a little longer,
          I’d have bulging apron pockets.
          Maybe I’d have reached another soddy.
          That neighbor Mr. Chapman’s gone,
          but if I’d found his place,
          surely he’d have some jerky,
          a tin of soda crackers left behind.
          But now,
          with this ankle,
          I can’t go far.
          And the wolf.
          I shiver,
          remembering how frightened I was
          of just a little rabbit.
          I sit beside the stream
          dipping my fingers in the icy water.
          In summer,
          Pa and Hiram bring in trout,
          speckled bodies writhing
          in their hands.
          I trail my fingers,
          wiggling them like Hiram showed me.
          Nothing happens.

86

          I run,
          holding my skirts above my knees.
          I holler
          and skip
          and make faces at the outhouse.
          I slam the door,
          take a spoon to the pots and pans.
          I whistle,
          I spit,
          think up as many unladylike things as I can,
          and do them.
          Out in the open.
          For the whole empty world to see.

87

          A thin sheet of ice crept across
          the water pail last night.
          I take the dipper and push through
          to scoop a drink,
          then stir the fire
          for breakfast.
          
          The sky
          holds the high white
          of snow.
          It is too early
          for this.
          I am not ready.

88

          Maybe there won’t be a storm
          after all.
          Autumn is devious.
          Calm afternoons with no hint of breaking
          can turn violent,
          bringing wind,
          ushering in rain
          and even snow.
          Or maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention
          and I’ll get trapped out here
          in
          a
          blizzard.
          On
          my
          own.
          
Maybe May B
.
          
Maybe

89

          Snow is falling.
          Why did I not prepare
          when the weather first turned?
          I have left
          so many things
          undone.
          Maybe I should check the garden
          for one last potato.
          I should have gathered more chips to burn
          yesterday.

90

          Wind runs across the prairie,
          swirling snowflakes and brittle grass.
          I push through the icy gale,
          force open the barn door.
          Only one bale of hay is still intact.
          I squat to lift it,
          hardly seeing where I’m going,
          and make it to the soddy more by memory
          than sight.
          My sore ankle complains.
          Back in the barn,
          I kneel in the scattered hay,
          scooping armfuls into my dress,
          and press the hem against my waist.
          Outside again,
          the blinding white whips at my