Quiet Like Wax

My husband is a little grossed out by them
And who can blame him
White gobs of wax on my bed table
the shape of my ear canal
Where no sound swims through

White gobs like melting snow
It is always Michigan in them
The world muted in tunnels of snow
Canals of ice packing

My ears were hollowed out by summer dives
to the bottom of the summer pool
But Michigan winter is what gave them
depth, what gave them
echoes like distant silence

Once, in Michigan
I lived below heavy walkers
and their heavy boots
I hated them, their hours
Cursed them like a Charlton Heston character
fist clenched to God
When a friend stayed beneath them
I asked did it bother him, all that noise

No, he said, but I am partly deaf
Lucky, I said

For me, there is never enough snow

Memory as Snow

When I was little, tunnels brought us to each other
compacted, dark, windowless
muffled under mountains of snow that would never
fold into us or
topple onto us
secure, muffled, tight
away
in pink wool mittens
in pink puffy snow pants
in pink cheeks and fingers
tunneling and tunneling
toward the warmth