she has gotten used to this sharp white. the wall unrolling, a wave of plaster and dust. here is a girl who makes windows uncomfortable. the way her eyes are knives, her mouth a stone. she has a way of looking. the body that is hers: long pigtails, longer legs. a girl might gets what she asks for. when she is given a secret, she sees no need to keep it. these revelations create meaning: an understanding she has to have, that she needs. to recognize where the room begins.
GRANDMOTHER’S
it is an apartment, a corner unit upstairs. the stairs going to the front door are open-air, surrounded by juniper trees. there is a sofa with an afghan thrown over it. it has a zigzag pattern in red, white and black. there is a bookcase with photographs and small knickknacks on it, a vase held by two slim, porcelain hands with rose-colored nails.
THE MORNING WITHIN DOORS
she has taken a single step. she has not plunged into cold water. she has spoiled her frocks and burned her fingers till she must cry. she ought to retire to bed, upon a mattress, and keep perfectly quiet till everything has vanished. she will not think, she will not be too explicit. the source of her anxiety: quite small and green. it is a mass of jelly. she does not pretend.
A WAY OF KNOWING
this constant noise is exactly what i need. the lawnmower of a neighbor or the insects flaunting the fading light--flocks of birds, migrating west, resting in treetops, their feathers loose and voices taut. i haven't done anything, i have slept. look outside, he says, and i put my ear to the wall. the day won't fade, yet. the dough rising in a bowl on the kitchen counter. the cat kneeling next to the fridge, pleading for a drop of milk.
I FILL THE ROOM WITH BLUE
i have obeyed what rules i could. fifty ways to break a glass without a drop of blood. fifty ways and fifty things to do. shards swelling in my throat. i struggle to call the clouds through the empty window, hedged with tiny foothills of deliberately broken glass. wisps of cloud like a girl's fine hair