Dirge for Morning
All of northern Mississippi is snowed in.
The sun has hidden its face like a child
so long I’ve nearly forgotten.
Years ago I wanted silence, to work
when the house was full
cursed the sudden
an old ghost over the intercom.
I read Snodgrass’s Heart’s Needle
in my ex-husband’s leather chair.
Its worn, cat-picked cushions
curve to my curves. His bloodhound
curls next to me,
breath warms my hip, paws
quivering, still icy
from the day’s first hunt.