My father left early that morning. 
Flurries kept coming, burying 
the street. For me, a snow day, 
free from first grade. But my mother 
missed the list of school closures 
read on the radio. She wailed, 
 
I can’t call the neighbor, 
not after what she said last time. 
And I have to take care of your brother.
Desperate, she snapped, 
Get your coat. 
You’re going to the bus stop.
 
Snow topped my galoshes 
as I trudged up the street, 
no one in sight. It was so quiet. 
The longer I stood there, 
the whiter my world. Encrusted, 
I became the Snow Girl.
 
The nearest door opened— 
a crone ended my exile, 
told me to go back.
 
I didn’t want to, but I did—
with an ally to see me through. 
Whenever big storms came, 
I’d dig into drifts at the foot 
of the driveway, fashion 
smooth-sided caves, 
 
spend hours cocooned 
in cold and silence—
at home with the forces 
that made me who I am.
                        

—Billboard, Palm Springs, California
 
The surface is genuine desert dirt, 
partly worn down to bedrock. 
At the start, you can’t see the house—
it looks like the road to nowhere. 
People used to miss it altogether, 
until we lined the sides with stones. 
First, go up the rise to a blind spot 
that could be fixed with dynamite. 
You must throw yourself in—
there’s no other way. Bear right, 
down the roller coaster, junipers 
crowding the track. The last ascent 
leads to a concrete pad in front 
of the garage, the near edge 
bolstered by cobbles and 
a strip of crumbling asphalt. 
Some deliverymen park 
on the street and run up 
with our packages—it’s easier. 
We admit, our driveway 
is not for everyone. 
But it’s our line in the sand.

a South Seas bride
riding out the hurricane
tied to a tree by my husband, 
a Tarzan, the only man
who knew what to do, 
the only one to outwit 
the wind and save 
his family. I could be 
the sultry sarong girl,
safe in the canoe 
as he paddled away
from the evil French 
governor, bound 
for a secret paradise 
where no one could find us. 
I could be Marama 
of Manakoora, mother 
of a daughter who would 
give me granddaughters, 
and tell them the tale 
of the palms blown 
horizontal, the church 
broken by the waves.
I could be a legend 
to outlast my own life,
dwelling in a parallel 
universe of air—
every hair in place,
immortal against all odds.