Breadcrumb #597

CATHERINE CAMILLERI

I press my back to the floor 
and stare at the ceiling,
pretending the peach in my hand 
is the sun. 

Someone put the radio on 
to the classical section 
and I crawl on my belly to turn it up. 
That woman on NPR with a voice like 
cacao— bitter and smooth—  
tells me it’s Beethoven. 

Beatrice the maid, 
as my mother calls herself on Sundays, 
nudges me with her foot. 
The diamonds in her eyes are dull 
and she tells me to lower the volume. 
Your father is downstairs, she says.
Building a wooden boy.

But wood burns and wood breaks. 
It splinters and dies and fills 
with rot and termites. 
Why not make a son out of 
stone or steel? Or titanium?

A hammer pounds and I cough 
on the sawdust filtering the air. 
Beatrice finds the broom 
and starts to sweep—  
I get my inhaler and turn up the music.

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