The Family Group
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by Madeline DeFrees That Sunday at the zoo I understood the child I never had would look like this： stiff-fingered spastic hands， a steady drool， and eyes in cages with a danger sign. I felt like stone myself the ancient line curved inward in a sunblind stare. My eyes were flat. Flat eyes for tanned young couples with their picture-story kids. Heads turned our way but you'd learned not to care. You stood tall as Greek columns， weather-streaked face bent toward the boy. I wanted to take his hand， hallucinate a husband. He whimpered at my touch. You watched me move away and grabbed my other hand as much in love as pity for our land-locked town. I heard the visionary rumor of the sea. What holds the three of us together in my mind is something no one planned. The chiseled look of mutes. A window shut to keep out pain. Wooden blank of doors. That stance the mallet might surprise if it could strike the words we hoard for fears galloping at night over moors through convoluted bone. The strange uncertain rumor of the sea. |
