Snow and the Lie
Forget what I said earlier. It snows here
all the time. Every winter is heavy with the anticipation
of snow. Legends of getting lost
on the way to the mailbox and freezing
to death get confirmed every year. Even here,
a woman died two doors down
from her house in four inches of snow,
huddled next to a pickup truck. Count twenty steps per lot
and see how many steps
it takes to get back home. Other questions,
Why did she go out at midnight and eight degrees in her nightgown?
Why did the settler have to get the mail
in a whiteout? Why didn’t she
ring the doorbell? Or did she, and the neighbors do what I do
when the doorbell rings in the night—
fold it into my dream and forget it
in the morning, a dim tolling of tower bells stuck on two notes
as I half wake, searching
for words to fit the tones—
Tuesday, shoehorn—until they turn into the click and rumble
of central heat in a blanketed room.
Lanette Cadle is a professor of English at Missouri State University where she teaches both rhetoric and creative writing. She has previously published poetry in Weave Magazine, TAB: The Journal of Poetry and Poetics, NEAT, Menacing Hedge, Yellow Chair Review, Young Ravens Literary Magazine, Blast Furnace, and Stirring.