snow angel

I am barefoot in a corner of my childhood
dining room. It is snowing and I notice
a few icicles forming on the chandelier.

The credenza is empty. I wonder
what Mom did with the china
until it hits me everything is packed

in my basement along with the silver
tea set and the Waterford crystal
pitcher. Someone’s made the table up

with burlap napkins & Franciscanware
circa 1976. There is no food. There is not
even the promise of food. I brace myself

against a wood panel wall. So many drifts
now. It’s hard to see 1975-82, or Grandma’s
threadbare green chair, or the hands

on our grandfather clock & no one emerges
from the louvered saloon doors tonight—

It’s only me who was, and is, and is
to come, supine in the fresh powder,
flapping my limbs, waiting for wings.

Victoria Nordlund’s poetry collection Wine-Dark Sea was published by Main Street Rag in 2020. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee, whose work has appeared in PANK Magazine, Rust+Moth, Chestnut Review, Pidgeonholes, and elsewhere. Visit her at VictoriaNordlund.com