The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
The wet field. Lilac air. She turned in widening circles. Wild iris. The broken stems of violets.
12
Drink the wine. Wind the clock. She stripped each room bare as the inside of winter. Yet,
they are everywhere. Philips’s mouth stained with blackberries. Michael’s flat shadow on
the wall. James’s hands opened over piano keys.
How lovely when she touched them, warm skin yielding beneath her hand.
The dream about pulling Philip out of the lake, dressing him in warm clothes. The dream
where he runs through the house calling for her. Crazy patterns on the floor.
She sees them in the Old Town. She sits in the bow, James in the stern, the boys bundled
between them. Each stroke a measure. Lift and pull. Beat after beat.
Winter’s violence approaches on the feathered wings of geese. The cold slows the lake.
She cannot describe it. Something at the horizon’s edge. Cold light falling. She closes her
eyes. She wants to be numb.
13
The clock’s chimes wake her. Empty beds. His closet door ajar. Bare wire hangers. Her
mind choked with memories.
Haunted birch. Candlelight. Lilacs everywhere. They waded beyond the dock. She floated in his
arms. They danced in the water, toes dipping into the sand. Her hair wet against her shoulders.
She knows every bend of shoreline, every plant and tree. She draws a map in her mind.
Counts trees. Traces pathways to hidden nests. She knows where bats retreat at dawn.
Cut iris in a crystal vase. Pearls on white gloves. The bells of Saint John’s. She saw a roan horse.
Its red-rimmed eye. Birch like the spines of the dead. The iron taste of lake water. Forgotten
things in pockets.
She thinks she can imagine almost anything. The meadow a sea of green. Her sons racing
ahead. Flowers that open only at night. A moving sky. She should have dropped to her
knees.
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