Sally Van Doren

Bagged

Zippers and nylon seal me in.
Ice droplets form
from our conjugal breath.
Pine needles and fir twigs
settle into the corners.
I have slid in the night
away from a rock toward
the pack at my side. I have
cinched the sleepsack
and drawn the cobra’s
hood into a cocoon over
my head. Only our tongues
confront the freezing air.
It is late August and we tent
in the Grand Tetons. One last
tightening of the drawstring.

 

Girlhood

Alone in the basement
hiding naked behind
the washing machine,
I spied on my father
looking for his ironed
shirt, watched two
repairmen work on the
furnace and heard
another flush out the
drains.
            Girl, soundless,
pinned between the hot-
water hook-up and the
ac adaptor on an ever-
lasting winter morning.

 

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