The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
tained by the vaulted ceiling, spreading out until she fills the space. Her sleeping body a brittle
locust shell. Within its crust a void.
The clock’s hollow chimes. Gin burns his throat. His mind goes blank. Fumbling, his
hands remember. Music moves through him like his own blood. Pieces from the Fifth
Symphony. Beethoven’s great despair.
She dreams a bridge between lake and house. A dreamed bridge for a dreamed child.
11
Fields of unbound hay. Lichen feverish against black trees that clutch the shore. What is
that sound? Spirits cling to the birch, each shape without a face. Without feet. Your emptiness.
Huett is luminous, your heart black. You grip the chair, Michael’s hand. The soles of
your feet are unclean.
You know what your Mother heard between the clicks of the metronome. Catastrophe
within. The silence that binds everything together. Your knowledge is without words. It is
like a heart folding in upon itself.
The owl lifts from the tree, muscled wings and feathered heartbeat. Your hands are always
cold. Dead sun. Hoarfrost. Night sweats. Huett receives its own darkness.
12
The night they found the deer in the basement Michael asked, Daddy, what happens when
you die?
Your soul goes to heaven.
How do you know it goes to heaven if you can’t see it?
Your soul is like the wind. You can’t see it, but you can feel it.
James blew into Michael’s upturned palm. Michael drifted into sleep.
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