Julie Sheehan reads
Interruption by Singapore Sling
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My daughter is falling, is falling from catalpas, from monkey bars, piano benches, is falling in barbeque pits at playdates, St. Patrick’s Day parties, she’s falling out of bed, she’s sleeping and flung. What startles, that paisley rugs and asphalt alike could volunteer her embrace? In flight from infant dread, a Moro reflex plays her six years obsessively. Her arms parachute open, but where down should be is gravity’s unbroken surface, and off to Dr. Grace go humerus, clavicle, carpals. The parts add up to spirit lemon-laced and cordial: a sling for heartbreak palpated, not to be healed of shrapnel and flack no jacket dissuades. My daughter is falling back into her Good Girl routine, a junior drill team officer doing her backover port spin best with a sequined rifle. Outside weather’s clear, but trauma embeds itself like fractured bone, cracked ice, lightning deep in a Homer seascape. She’s falling into reverie, slinging Together with cherry Get Back into a gulf you’d call hope if it hadn’t been drained long ago, and not by her. She’s just a falling daughter, floating brandy shot at high velocity, stone in a Singapore sling.