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Mother's house was moving in sleep. Eyes refused to watch for noises. In every room someone was dream-listening, putting sounds into stories. Only the dogs would occasionally lift a lid against possible intruders. There were whistles and snorts and gnashing teeth. Somewhere outside a horn honked.

Across town she lay half-dressed, wearing a gown with ties and an open back. Her sleep was pill-induced, a trance that would stay like the taste of coffee on morning's throat. Delicately folded from flatness, she took shape. Ripples of movement separated her from linen. Each day opened up from blackness, a blossom unpetaling and almost weightless.

She danced flat, water against fishing lines, gathering softness against the harsh growth spreading within her. Night was switched away. But death can't be folded from sight. It lingered in her eyes as she searched for illusion. We held out cautious fingers to grope with her, over, back and under, seeking for a different answer, searching for sunrise in her hand.
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Publication:Chicago Review
Date:Jun 22, 1988
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