The floorboards are wet. The heater is gusting. The sky
is low; the fields blank. You’ll have to
ask Dad that, Jane answers. The backseat does not
ask Dad that. It is February in New England.
The destination is Trader Joe’s.
Jane knows that centuries ago women crossed fields
to deliver their neighbors’ children. They wore snowshoes,
brought honey, rum, and butter. The snow
was stirred like their skirts. The snow
was crusted like sleep. The snow
was deep. (The heat is on, Jane tells the backseat.)