A vanilla candle flickers in the black hallway,
sprinkling sweet smoke and lightdrops over the walls.
The easy breath of hard sleep drifts out of the twins’ room.
Their blankets rustle and bump over flexed legs,
arms flail beneath raucous heads of spiky hair
and sleep-sealed lashes. The boys mount ocean waves
on ebony horses and pilot desert dunes in clipper ships.
Their mother paces the hall in a white eyelet gown,
her spirit seeping through the lace.
The phone rings as she dozes
above the bedcovers,
at the time it always does,
when the bar closes--
with the tinny echo behind
of beer and business, market
chat and woman boast.
His stale breath pours into
the room; his absence pounds
the pillow and pinches
her back cheek.
I always think of you,
he says in a burble.
Published in Lullwater Review, vol. XV, no. 2.
2005