Interior Snow

by R. Nikolas Macioci

It's snowing in the dining room tonight,
piling up to the seat of my chair. For hours
I have shoveled and carried bucketfuls
of crystalline flakes outside. After all,
it is December in my house, and a person
can expect snow to drift from anywhere.
Tornadic spirals rise up when I open the door.
Dusting off my chair, I sit near a window
for a while. Stars blink their meager light.
The only place it's snowing is in my house,
but that's another story that almost kills
me to tell. It's about a father who drank
too much and raised welts on his kid,
a father who, when sober, killed
everyone near him with clever kindness.

I've shoveled down to the hardwood floor,
carried out the last bucket, although,
a light snow continues to fall. Outside,
Christmas lights baptize the night,
snowflakes melt atop the stove lit
with burners high. The funny thing is
there are no holes in the ceiling.
Winter simply drifts down the way
ghosts enter through the wall.
Cold has become a religion.
Look at my blue hands, fingers nearly
frozen, wanting only warmth
of my father's hand in mine.