White on White

The snow is falling on the snow,

which means the usual sounds have gone—

no cars, no voices, just this slow

accumulation, drift, and dawn

turned gray. Outside my window pane

the oak tree fades to nothing, white

on white, and I'm supposed to maintain

this stillness, this enforced quiet,

this breathing held behind my teeth.

I didn't make coffee. Didn't shower.

Sat at the edge of my bed like a thief

who's been caught. The power

of all this quiet pressing down,

making erasure look like peace.

I'm not supposed to move.

I'm not supposed to let my pulse

be loud enough to hear. The alcove

of my chest becomes a false

sanctuary. Outside, the fence disappears.

The mailbox becomes a rumor.

I'm still here, but the world wears

white like camouflage. The drummer

inside my ribs keeps time

with the falling, falling snow.