The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
She is tired. She listens to him close the door. From Saigon, to the Philippines, L.A., New
York. No one left to run to. She accepts this place of spruce and snow. Birch like mist
twisting up from rice fields. She is grateful for her scholarship. For this man with ice-blue
eyes who tries to heal them both with his hands.
5
Medina accuses James of not loving her. Of trying to hurt her. Her flushed face. Her
mouth stretched tight, stained with wine.
He can’t tell her of Mai, who writes poems in black notebooks. That he is overwhelmed
by a submission to all he had buried after the war.
She accuses him of not loving her. Of avoiding her. He begins to pace. She grabs his arm.
“Stop. Look at me. Touch me.” Her elbow sends a glass crashing to the floor.
He can’t tell her he is unraveling thread by thread. Of Mai whose body gives reprieve.
Whose room holds a brass Buddha polished by candle light.
He leads her to the piano, covers her hands with his own. Directs them to play familiar
patterns. She softens beside him. She weeps. He kisses her mouth.
“You are my life. Our sons are my life.” Lying beside her, he strokes her. She comes in long
waves. She cries out. He holds his hand against her mouth. He knows he is falling away. It
is the vanishing that betrays her.
6
Silhouette of birch. Early birdsong. A child’s fort built of branches and leaves. Children’s
footprints in the sandy grass. Medina wraps herself in her wool shawl, watches her sons
fight with sticks thin as switches. “En garde.” Philip advances. Michael retreats. Hiss of
sticks. The dog jumps and snaps. Imagined wounds.
She holds out her hand for their weapons. Philip throws his at her feet, salutes and turns
away. She does not see the child, only his anger. She grabs his arm. He wrenches loose to
disappear into the fort, a house too fragile to hold him.
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