There is one refuge from the scourge of time.
One last sheet underneath which to hide,
After you’ve ripped open the closet door
And turned on all the lights
and shouted for parents down the hallway at night

and you’re still shaking.
There is one last place.

Me,
I swallowed myself.
The whale and Jonah, both,
fighting my gag reflex at age 6,
On an almost-snowday morning,
Jealous of the kids in the Adirondacks
(They have snowmonths there)
Waiting for the bus in a faded Patriots anorak.
I didn’t much care for the Patriots, really.
But I was a loyal kid soldier of the Salvation Army.

It was snowing fit to bust,
Those big, wet, flakes children love,
Not symmetrically beautiful like on the busted TV,
but a snowday’s a snowday — kids don’t judge.

In the stand of white pine next to our house
A young doe lurched through the snow,
So much deeper then,
And whiter, somehow,
And she was jarringly absent
That usual grace of hers.
A front leg penduluming like a trebuchet,
And the lump in my throat came.
It swang from tendon and sinew,
Which is what we used for bowstrings,
Back in the day when we still hunted things.
I burst into tears, nearly screaming.
Snow bloodied and steaming.

You would let a child mull on that ugliness
mouldering over nights spent sleepless?
No. Me,
I swallowed myself.
The ugly grain of sand.
And the oyster both.
For as long as I can stand
The burning pain
The need to keep
that poor piece of dirt safe
To spit out a pearl, one day.

Now I’ve found that the pearl never changed.
Inside the pearl
It’s still just that ugly piece of this earth.