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.