Early Winter

1 have learned little from anything that did not in some way make me sick. 
—Alice Walker 

Home from the dance in a howling blizzard. 
The kitchen door blown open. 
A heap of snow swirled onto linoleum. 
I’m entranced at the violence, 
otherworldliness. 
Something anemic, cancerous, 
or ruptured. 
The shock of inappropriate 
invades the unlocked house, 
the snow both symptom and symbol 
and the tension wanting to heal me. 
Broom and pan, behind the door 
but I can only stand and stare, 
the chills coming now, 
the flush of soul, 
and in my head over and over, 
the music of the dance.