The Sleeping Wall

The Sleeping Wall
Her seriousness moves him. She must find meaning in everything. The efficiency of her hands as
they write or prepare food. Sometimes, just the sight of her hands.
A box of Philip’s things. How little he owned. Two jackets, the tiger’s eye, frayed baseball
cards he’d put on his bicycle spokes.
The only sound is from the breeze. Slits of sunlight through pearl-gray clouds. Her shadow tilts
in the grass. A shaft of heat runs through him.
He answered the phone. She’d read about it in the paper. All he heard was her crying.
6
Mai walks the ridge along the fieldstone wall. Snarls of ivy. Tick of switch she drags over
the rough surface. Wind-seized smoke of burning leaves. Isles of maples, furies of orange
and red.
The old French road on which we flee. Maman’s soft footfall, her short breaths. Wall of river rock
blanched by moonlight. Endless wall.
She is no longer held. She misses that. His hot breath, hands exploring her as if he would
find something hidden from them both.
Uneven surface of stones. The waterfall behind it. Our listing shadows.
He calls at midnight; the ringing calls her back to Saigon nights swollen with the swing
of church bells, their tongues loosely falling back and forth. She stares at the phone. Her
heart in its cage. Her white nightgown. Phantom bride.
Streetlight etches spines of books she will take with her to Boston. James said, We must
serve death by remembering. He kissed her eyes.
Night collapses. The wall rises out of the dewed earth in new light. Where it is broken, shards of
bottle glass, wads of paper, an extravagance of white jasmine.
7
Medina stands from kneeling at Philip’s grave. A woman on the near slope, watching.
• 45 •