Winter Air

Bren Kleinfelder, 1997

I’m suffocating in a tiny Alaskan town

choking on winter gossip

gasping for air in my fishbowl privacy

strangling myself as I twist tighter

in the web of secrets I swore not to tell.

I cross paths with the same people at least five times a day

in this tiny Alaskan town where stalking is hard to prove

and forgiveness comes in the form of forgetfulness.

I’ve become an asthmatic begging for a deep breath

of rejuvenating crisp clean oxygen

to soften my opinions 

about people’s problems I know nothing about

oh, I attend those winter potlucks

where piping hot gossip is eagerly brought

and rumors are heartily spread onto home-made bread

and bitter coffee is sweetened by someone else’s tears.

I have been there and eaten my share

my Thanksgiving gluttony of people and pain

but my belt is too tight

I push back from the table before the dessert

eager to unlatch my buckle and being my fast

and take a deep drag off the cold winter air.