Read May B. for Free Online Page B

formed
          over them.
          I don’t care.
          I crack it with a spoon
          and hunch,
          shivering,
          swallowing without tasting at all.
          I squeeze a hay log,
          to feel if the cold
          is ice
          or just the air.
          Only two logs don’t crackle
          the way the popcorn
          in the skillet does.
          The fire has burned so low,
          I have to push it along,
          stirring and blowing
          before I place the hay logs
          gently on the embers.
          A lick of flame
          grows brighter,
          and I draw up close enough
          to burn my eyebrows.

108

          I am
          Mavis Elizabeth Betterly.
          I am
          used to hard work.
          I can
          run a household better
          than Mrs. Oblinger ever could.
          What does it matter,
          those things
          that
          hold me back?
          What does it matter
          when I make mistakes?
          They don’t
          make me
          who
          I
          am.

109

          I search through Mrs. Oblinger’s sewing box.
          In front of her tiny looking glass,
          I run my fingers through my hair,
          then grip a handful
          and cut.
          The scissors snap
          as sheaves fall loose upon the floor.
          Samson didn’t get to choose
          what Delilah did,
          tricking him into the haircut that sapped his strength.
          I didn’t ask
          to read like a child,
          quit school,
          come here,
          starve.
          One last snip,
          and the last strands
          drop.
          My hair is short.
          Jagged.
          I
          made it this way,
          not someone else.
          I
          chose
          to hack it off.
          This is of my own doing.
          I grasp handfuls of hair,
          Shove it
          into the stove,
          watch it
          curl,
          shrivel,
          and burn.

110

          It is time to figure out
          how to care for myself,
          not by waiting
          or trying to forget I’ve been left here.
          Living now,
          not later on when Pa comes.
          Not last year in my memory.
          I bang ice from the hay logs.
          The few buffalo chips must stay as they are,
          too fragile to pound on the floor.
          My hands move like wet leather
          dried out in the sun.
          I’ve taken to using my coat as another blanket;
          my mittens I wear all the time;
          I haven’t removed Ma’s boots for days.
          Mr. Oblinger has clothing
          stored beneath their bed,
          and there’s Mrs. Oblinger’s trunk.
          I’m not ready to root through
          their underdrawers.
          I will make do with what I have.
          I study the soddy.
          I’ve neglected to wash Mrs. Oblinger’s pots.
          Footprints cover the floor.
          The bed’s disheveled.
          I straighten the cupboards
          and find that can of peaches.

111

          I place the tinned peaches on the table,
          shake out the quilts,
          folding them over the back of the rocker,
          and sweep up the mess of dirt
          on the floor.
          With the broom I push snow into Mrs. Oblinger’s pots,
          to use later for washing.
          The pail I fill also
          and place near the stove.
          I continue sweeping,
          but can’t push from my mind
          stories I’ve heard:
          people caught