Buried

That winter the snow kept rising,
a slow white wall climbing the windows,
each morning untouched,
the whole world muffled under it.
A hush so complete it felt like a hand
pressed gently over the mouth.

I pulled on my snow pants, my jacket.
No one home, I went outside.
Back then we wore our house keys
on shoelaces around our necks—
mine a fluorescent yellow
because I lost things.

I thought I was building an igloo,
though it was only a mound of snow
with a tunnel carved into its center.
Still, I imagined fur, seal oil,
families folded into warmth,
a fire licking the dark.

Inside my tunnel the snow leaned in,
heavy, watching through my mittens.
Sweat cooled against my wrists,
a thin film turning to ice.
For a moment I thought of resting—
the work had been hard,
the quiet so complete—
the ceiling gave way.
I took a breath.

Under that sudden weight
I wasn’t sure
I could get myself out.

Tamara Salih is a physician and writer. Her poetry has appeared in MedMic and Poet in Verse Journal. Her work explores memory, inheritance, and the body. She lives on the west coast of Canada near the Salish Sea.