Snow Covers The Door

Safe and
warm
and dark
and covered
by the blankets
my mother made
before she died.

There is an orange nightlight
in the shape of a sun
with four rays
that makes a golden
ring on the wall.
My father is in his truck
in Tulsa, or maybe Omaha.

Angie crashes through
the front door, laughing.
There’s a boy’s voice.
They are in my doorway,
but I am far across
the pastures covered in snow.
I am making tunnels
through it like a badger.
Do badgers make tunnels?
I can’t remember
what Mrs. Wilkens said about them.
The boy is standing over me.
He smells like rotten orange juice.
He’s sitting on my bed,
but I am one of those people waiting
to be found by a big Saint Bernard dog
with a wooden bottle around its neck.

“Leave her alone,” Angie says,
“Let’s get out of here.”
He falls over my nightstand,
crushing it to pieces.
He lies still.
Angie disappears.
We are all gone --
all screaming over the mountains
and the tops of the snow-covered pines.

-- Vanessa Kittle