On the line they look like dried cod, splayed frozen legs
exhibiting a like symmetry. Hannah stacks them crisply in her arms the
way Annie did when she cleared the flakes. Hannah was a baby then,
sucking on a twisted rag dipped in blackstrap molasses. When she cried,
it slipped out onto her chest--until a flick of Annie's wrist
dispersed the ponderous bluebottles battened on it, and she shoved the
sugar tit back in. How that little girl could come to such a fear of
germs in later life is something of a mystery and another story.
Meanwhile, she negotiates longjohns through a door. Stiff and pallid
against the framed night sky, they're some vision out of Dante. She
stacks them in the oven to thaw protruding legs updating the analogy.