two feet

in seventh grade, snow fell for a week straight.
a vortex of mashed halos & teeth.
my brother & i would venture out
as far as we could. me, pulling him 
on the purple plastic sled. the corn fields
became the wings of an ancient bird.
they beat into ocean. swallowed us
& never spit us out. my body was changing
in terrible ways. one storm night, alone in my bedroom,
i peeled off cold wet socks & 
green snow pants. i stared at myself
in my window reflection. my body,
like a night light, a blade through the room.
all skin. a folded bedsheet. i put on 
the only bra i had & stared at myself.
i was not excited or afraid. more like hungry. 
please let me human after all of this. 
i cannot understand now why i thought i wanted
to get older. this week i am almost thirty
& the snow is falling & my ribs are 
harp strings of a terrible what-if. 
the thickening past, the week of snow, was only one of
many precipices. my body peeling away from me.
the snow falling. a buried house. one day
my brother & i went too far. his boots filled
with snow. he does not remember this now
so i often wonder if i made it up but 
i took his feet in my hands 
to warm them. breathing on my own fingers 
& flexing. the blood, a water cycle. 
corn husks all sleeping gilless under our feet. 
i think i saw my reflection too in the snow.
it was that bright. a vision of a girl-boy without
a place to take his fear. his flesh. 
when we made it home i put the kettle on.
poured out packets of hot chocolate in the blue mugs.
laid on the couch next to my brother
while the windows & the future 
filled with two feet of snow.