The object looses ground when what I’ll call here “external path”               becomes into, becomes the voice of spirit that heats heat – swollen into               maternal causes, face upon face rising out of the

30. Fire

When he comes home I’m in the bedroom with the baby and our son is           watching Barney. On the table under tomato and onion is the fish           he cleaned the night before, dripping blood into the sink.

Quickly we eat, then quickly I am back upstairs to read: Mrs. Ramsay’s           death, Lily Briscoe’s need to paint, Mr. Ramsay’s gorgeous           self-pity. And the baby sleeps fitfully. I know she will wake.

The next morning I wash all the windows inside and out while she           watches me from the stroller. Pollen, dust, black ink from the           newspaper on my hands.