The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
Part Five
—
The child’s room is a box. Three dolls akimbo on the sill. Door without a lock. She
pleats their skirts and combs their hair. Wraps lace around their wrists. She is the
maker of dreams. She is the taker of dreams. She is the guardian of lost dolls.
1
—
Milk poured into little pitchers, then set on the table. Vine bent along the fence, twig on
the back step. Shoes piled in the hallway. A horse fly has bitten Michael’s arms. Medina
opens a book. Mold splatters the pages.
Noon sunshine. Nowhere to hide. The boys doze in the rope web of the porch hammock.
She lines up their shoes. Pours water into potted geraniums. Blue sky falling through
branches. The Old Town needs varnish. Unmade beds wait.
She thinks she is trapped in a story. How can she know what she thinks? Behind pale blue
eyelids, Michael’s eyes roll into his head. He seems abnormal, alien.
Last night, she and James lay in bed not touching or speaking, knowing the other awake,
the silence between them thick gauze. She said his name. The clock’s chimes surged
through her. Molten silver. Tintinnáre.
A hawk flies over Huett. Its cry rolls over the water, fades into the horizon. Her thoughts
shift like light on waves. She longs for winter’s breath on her face. Stillness of snow. Sound
of ice on leaves, reeds glimmering swords.
• 32 •