The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
James plays the piano. Sounds shiver across the water. Philip at the lake’s edge in his
striped soccer shirt. His stone skims effortlessly over the water before it drops.
The curve of James’s shoulders fills her with such longing. That first year, she went without
underwear so he could have her whenever he wanted. Against the wall. On the porch
floor.
His music rushes at her. A flock of birds startled from the birch. A furious sheet of rain.
She grabs hold of her chair, as if the flood would lift her. The play of hammer and string.
The balance of melody against everything else.
And they are all caught up in the resonance—as if there was no other world outside of it,
only the lake and the gathering smell of rain.
The canoe. The lake a mouth. She was careless with what she loved. It was always too
much. Wild geese always calling, cupboards needing to be filled. The children watch the
metallic clouds move above the lake. The water turns black.
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