Ibbetson Street Press Young Poet Series editor Emily Pineau writes of a transition – a transition that is painful but will lead to new doors opening.

(L to R) Doug Holder and Emily Pineau.

No Longer My Face

Buried under this snow

is the day I will be leaving.

I won’t push open

that heavy door

that those broken steps

lead up to

anymore.

I won’t walk

up that ramp,

leading to his office—

walls covered in paintings

like in a living room,

and a cleared off desk.

Typewriter next to him.

I sit in the same chair

every time.

The benches that I found

refuge in will no longer

be my benches,

but they will remember

my warmth,

and the sound of my typing—

those essays and stories

they hear for hours

in a form of Morse Code.

I wonder how long

it will take for my name

to just be a name

and no longer my face

or voice.

My poems might take on

new meanings.

Or I might take on

a new meaning.

I keep shoveling,

not wanting to stop.

My body aches

deeper than physical labor.

I keep checking

my watch.

My neighbor snow blows

the bottom of my driveway.

I am grateful,

but numb.

The mounds of snow remind me

how time packs me in.

Inside, my toes and nose burn.

Soaked clothes are in heaps

in the designated spot

by the closet.

Ice socks are replaced by slippers.

My unzipped jacket is replaced with

my unzipped backpack.

Folders tucked in, papers written.

Car cleared off—

Crawl into bed.

Missing what I haven’t

lost yet.

— Emily Pineau

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