The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
He tries to describe the stench of Saigon pyres. Blackened faces of children. “Hush.” She
puts her finger to his lips.
2
Pain. Wave after wave. Breathe. One, the midwife counts. Chipped white paint on the iron
bedstead. Two. Was that lightning outside? Three. James holds your ankles. Four. You are
opening. You are splitting. Breathe. The midwife counts. You count.
Pain twists. Explodes. The midwife opens her black bag with scissor hands. You bear
down and down. The child cuts through you. You are tearing open. You scream. You are
all body. The slippery cord. An angry cry. The child in James’s hands. He smiles into his
son’s face, throws back his head and laughs. He kisses your forehead, your mouth.
Child on your breast mewing like a kitten. You guide his rooting mouth to taste your foremilk.
Warm weight. Genitals so large it seems he sprang from them. His blue eyes. You are
thinning out. It is too soon to feel love. You dig your nails into James’s hand.
He wraps the afterbirth in newsprint. You see him through the window, hear sounds of
digging. Afterbirth buried under the old pine. The lake beyond, three-quarter moon rising.
Sun falling behind the far shore hills. One last shock of blinding light. It races across
the water. Shoots through the tree to glaze your arm.
3
The one like her born at dawn. Shadows gathered in his hair.
Birth. The moment is an eggshell cracking open. It all races at her. The small wet head, the
stub of cord. The scraping sheet. There is no stoppage, as if she had no skin or will. As if it
all could drown her. Blood glistens, smears the inside of her thighs, its scent so strong she
gags. She turns into the pillow.
James at her side, the child between them. “Michael,” he whispers, his breath in her hair.
He traces a tear that falls down her cheek.
The child’s small hand around her finger. She brings it to her mouth. Her body emptied.
Her breasts ache. Outside the rain like many knives. Leaves cut from their hold.
• 21 •