Igloo

Barren fields, tin sky, cloudsthe color of clouds. Why describe thingswhen things describe themselves?

Besides, there's nowhere to turnwhen your shield against despairbecomes its source,

or when you hearfrom the rear of the planeyour psychiatrist cry Let's roll!

I remember the day,the sugar beach where waveswashed up an Igloo cooler—

red, white, totally barnacled.My brother and I, we wonderedwhat was in it, something

wildly fragile we hopedand, opening it, found air.My self was in there, let loose

before I could know it.Some days my head's a hovercraft,chimneys are lighthouses,

each door a Rothko portal,the hospital vending machinesstocked with Sumerian gods.

But it never lasts. Saturday'sinfinite garage gives wayto the stairwells of Sunday,

to Monday's dismal milk.I rejoin the tribe, read labelsin the Safeway cereal aisle.

In February, the parking lotis ringed with mounds of snow.I narrow my eyes,

imagine them as waves, and prayfor them to crest, to crash,and bring in, sweetly, me.