The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
She rocks the hammock. Philip’s eyes snap open. A black bird crows, then another and
another until the tree screams.
2
A glass of milk slides through Michael’s hands. Shattered glass in a pool of white.
James had said, We make our own history. We make choices. She pulls his shirt around
her, slides his hunting knife into her jeans.
Mother’s hands come down hard on ivory keys. Eyes closed, she leans into the piano. I sink into
my chair, mouth words to made-up songs. Chair, piano, even Mother, are made of sound. Things
I can put my hand through.
Drawers of mismatched silverware, unused marrow spoons. She grabs a corkscrew. The
foil over the bottle top slices her finger. Blood on a plate. Blood on his shirt. Tap water of
rust. Her bracelets clang against porcelain. Spring snow falls through birch. Snow melts
into the lake.
Cattails and lily pads. I float, my unbound hair flowing around me. I dive to the bottom in
search of fronds in the dim green. I dive to where light fades and my fingers turn cold. Even here,
the current a kind of music.
Window fogged by steam. Hot dog water thick with fleshy scum. Philip’s eyes the sharp
tips of daggers. Michael’s rabbity bites. Red wine hot in her throat. With the tip of her
cigarette she lights another. Pour another glass. Another glass.
Mother’s eyes veined yellow by lamplight, my face between her hands. Music records history, she
says; you learn what was forbidden, for that is where the music comes from. A wisp of hair floats
over her forehead. I dare not touch it.
Bitter wine. Sunset. No wind. With snow, a sudden chill as if the day’s heat was an accident.
She runs to the boathouse, trails her hand over the Old Town’s wooden gunnels.
She looks at her hands, broken lifelines on both palms.
3
At the window she sees headlights, but it is the last of daylight clinging to birch. Her hand
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