It’s late, but the girl is still here.
She’s still here with Old Man and Sister. Old Man with the twisted foot, Old Man asleep in the chair, and the girl and Sister at the teacher’s desk. Sister’s hair loose and yellow under the drafting lamp. Sister’s hands gone to claws. Say Sister, the girl speaks. But Sister makes not to hear, and the girl rolls her lips, quits.
For her, a chipped cup, and for Sister, a platter of beads from which she plucks. Holds one to the bulb. The threads inside, thick blue ropes and some red.
The girl’s hand on her belly. The girl’s hand on the cup. Old Man snores and chokes, and Sister says, The way it turns.
She moves the bead, and through it, the girl sees veins, cut glass, some small living flash.
It isn’t nothing, Sister says.
How, Old Man says in his sleep.
Sister pulls the thread through her mouth.
Old Man says, How, and the girl starts.
Old Man says, Now, and the girl grinds her teeth.
Now, Now.
Platter and cup. Thin spinning leaf.
What’ll happen? the girl says.
And Sister studies what she’s making. See there, she answers. See the way they all catch.