Group Eight
Daystar She wanted a little room for thinking: but she saw diapers steaming on the line, a doll slumped behind the door. So she lugged a chair behind the garage to sit out the children’s naps. Sometimes there were things to watch–the pinched armor of a vanished cricket, a floating maple leaf. Other days she stared until she was assured when she closed her eyes she’d see only her own vivid blood. She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared pouting from the top of the stairs. And just what was mother doing out back with the field mice? Why, building a palace. Later that night when Thomas rolled over and lurched into her, she would open her eyes and think of the place that was hers for an hour–where she was nothing, pure nothing, in the middle of the day.