Suppose I told you my hometown was this, the midpoint
of northern winter: bitter wind, snow so hard-driven that it slices
tiny wounds into your face. And ice underfoot. Here,
absence does not criticize or scold. My father finally dies,
silver bullet through his monstrous mind, sharp stake of oak
eradicating the pounding of the heart that hung in his pants.
My mother, a shaft of sunlight interrupting a chickadee, blinds
anyone looking in that direction, but nobody does, ever,
so she bears no guilt. Only sings.

In winter we are all adequately punished for wrong turns.
Robert Frost, a winter name for sure, called up a turning,
an intersection, a moment of choice. To rise from the warm
envelope of flannel sheets and heavy blankets, pad barefoot
to signal the furnace with the tiny white switch, regain safety—
I chose this morning to release every dream, prying loose their
baby-fierce fingers. If I had remained inside the last one
you would find an empty kitchen after rapping at my door,
shedding your snowy boots, stepping onto the green mat. Kettle
hissing to itself. Tea steaming. Lingering note

of the song my mother taught me before another apology.