The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
7
James sees Medina in the coltish movements of young party girls of Saigon. They have no
breasts. They dart from soldier to soldier, grab at their shirts. He sees her in their obsidian
eyes, narrow feet in plastic sandals and legs streaked with fine dried dust.
Velvet skin, a hungry mouth can obliterate ruin. Perfume masks air drenched with the
sweat of soldiers crammed into tents. The last night the prostitute is as small as a child.
Her saliva tastes of vinegar. Her red nightgown trails along the floor. He leaves accidental
bruises on her arms.
• 18 •