The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
Part Six
—
Her mother leans into the piano. Music floats in apple trees. It falls around the child.
She is carried to bed. She is unable to resist the close of day, protest its brevity. She
has been bathed in music. It is what gathers in her mind as she drifts somewhere
other than the world she tries to know.
1
All the light is shattered. The dog licks my hand. I can’t wake up.
—
Phone calls. Inquest. She waited for James to come to her. Bedrooms filled with aunts, cousins,
uncles. James at the dock in his suit. The blue veins at Michael’s temples.
I’ve cleaned the house. Beaten the rugs. Stripped the walls bare, scrubbed them. Emptied
cupboards, drawers, bookcases. Boxes overflow onto the porch. My hands are raw. I’m
always cold.
She waited for James. He played the piano. Gone for hours. Plates of untouched food. He carried
Michael to bed.
I paint the kitchen, dining room, living room. Paint over smoke stains on the hearth.
Clean windows with newspaper. Strip beds. Burn photographs and letters.
A woman brought her tea, made her hot soup. She answered the phone.
My dresses are clean. They sway on the rope.
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