tundra

yesterday i walked into the
frozen food aisle--
opened the freezer door
& checked to make sure
no one was watching me--
there was only
a woman with
frizzy brown hair
checking
the nutrition label 
on a tub of turkey hill brand
rocky road ice cream 
& an old man in a navy
baseball cap stacking
his basket with little 
"Hungry Man" dinners--
each of them titled  
The Thanksgiving Feast
& it makes me imagine 
him celebrating the holiday
alone each night at the end
of a table-- one candle 
& a center piece of autumn 
leaves & indian corn
in april or july--
neither of them were paying
attention so i moved the pints
of ice cream aside &
climbed in-- 
tunneled my way through
the shelves & back to
where they keep the tundra--
i wanted to feel 
absolute cold-- not 
like anything you can 
find
from an open window 
in pennsylvania--
i reach out a hand & shut
the freezer door-- blow
hot breath on the glass
& invent my own hieroglyphs--
i leave a message 
that i'm not coming back
until i feel warm again--
the tundra isn't white--
it's been sucked clean of
colors so that everything
glow like a color only 
found in the tongue of a star--
a penguin slides up on its
belly & asks me what i'm doing
there
& i explain to him
that sometimes i just get
like this 
that there's no where else
to go when i feel
like this 
& he eats orange creamsicles 
& asks why i don't write
happy poems--
before i can tell him
that i do-- i do write
happy poems sometimes 
he skates away on
a gust of ice cubes--
i lay on my back & become
a snow angle-- elbows
freezer burn into wings--
i spit feathers from my mouth
& write poems on the inside of
the freezer doors
as dusk comes &
the night shift takes
over at the supermarket--
wearing the knees of their
jeans thin as they re-stock
the shelves-- new rows 
of light vanilla bean ice cream
& chicken nugget tv dinners &
white cheddar spinach pirogues
& chocolate chip waffles &
they box me in--
wipe off my poems with 
the back of their long red sleeves 
& i say what a shame it
was that i didn't bring 
any paper to write on so 
i take a spoon from my pocket
& eat spoonfuls of 
a small pint of 
pistachio ice cream because
i've always been intrigued by
the notion of the flavor
& i had never tried it--
it's not much to get excited
over but i finish the pint
& i feel colder than i had before--
on each window i write 
help-- help-- help
& then wipe it away because
i don't actually know what i
want help with--
i want someone to open
all the windows & let everything
melt-- i want to drip
like march-- peel off
dead leaves from me knees 
& no i don't want to write 
you a happy poem--
i want to breath hot
on the page until the words
congregate-- lock arms--
hide in nutrition labels 
& make thanksgiving in
july--
yes i pushed aside
the row of ice cream gallons--
crawled forward & out of the 
tundra--
orange dreamsicle in my
teeth-- brushed feathers 
from my shoulders &
stood up to see
the woman with the frizzy brown
hair still looking
at the gallon of rock road
& the old man in the navy hat
pushing his
cart of tv dinners--
& the freezer doors
still wear my poems--