The Weight of Seasons
by Arlene Ang
I pity snails, and all that carry their homes on their backs.
— J.R.R. Tolkien
Dust waylays the path
between downstairs and the attic,
corridors that lead to dead ends.
The daily boy hurls newspaper into mud,
dog puddles. I remove the outer pages
like wilted lettuce leaves
until only the obituaries remain.
The dead refuse to be buried.
I trudge under the burden
of Grandmother's skillet, bric-a-brac
from relatives, the hunting gear
of various men, children's toys
on the rocking chair
where Mother darned socks.
I tick off calendar numbers,
travel slowly from room to room,
lighten the load by tossing
scraps of poetry over my shoulders,
salt for the devil, leaving answers
on crossword puzzles like slime
trailed by the garden snail.