The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
flat against the window. Her wine tastes ripe, dark. Dusk. Stars nailed to sky.
His absence carves a pit into her stomach. She fills her glass, lifts it to the light. Red liquid
aglow with rash radiance.
Her insides are heavy. She thought his love was perfect. Another drink. Abeyance is the
word she works hard to remember. She is set aside, suspended.
The pit in her opens and opens until she is hollowed out. Except for the warmth of the
wine spreading, seeping through her. Wind moves through branches in such lovely
rhythm. Measured beats of waves fold over the shore. She must go to the lake.
James will come. He will charge through the empty house, his voice echo through its
rooms. Pain splinters through her head. Stars’ bleak shards. A terrible noise inside her
head. Glass breaking. The lake dilutes memory. The way the Old Town embraces you.
4
Stack the wood. Start the fire. Boys, be quiet. More wine. Another cigarette. She can’t sit
still. B flat is off. She can’t get the notes right. Outside, jonquils receive late snow. The dog
spins and spins after its tail. Be still.
I run to find the sun, but it’s been stolen by slate clouds the color of a junco’s wings. The road
cuts fields burnt by summer. Wires burdened with birds. The silence grows louder. Except for the
breaking of leaves underfoot. Except for my panting.
Michael raises his arms as she pulls on his jacket. Philip’s feet stamp stamp. Two pillows,
two blankets carried to the Old Town. Thermos of hot chocolate. White moonlight drains
the blond from Philip’s hair, turns his hands blue.
On hands and knees I make a house of sticks to fill with dead grass and dry clover. Reek of sulfur
before smoke. Quick heat on my face. The house explodes into flames. Time is still.
Boys head-to-toe in the Old Town. Film of snow on the gunnels. Michael’s raised hand,
delicate as a reed. They all know the melody. They hum what she couldn’t play. Her head
swims. Glare of moon. Children of light.
Flame, clean like water. Again, I am running. Away from the parched field, the thin trail of
smoke. Back to Father and Huett. To bury my face in the dog’s fur.
• 34 •