Poetry 2010 / Volume 41

Sleepwalker — Tonya Ward Singer

The refrigerator smells like sour milk, but Salvador doesn’t notice, not tonight as he stands squinting from the glare of a white bulb inside. He scans the gap between red and yellow cartons and tubs, the empty space between things.

That’s where art is, a teacher told him thirty years ago when he tried to make sense of clay. Salvador reaches for white space, the opening between the orange juice and milk. His arm glows, fingers extend to wrap around what he can almost feel.

Then the milk stench closes in. He staggers back, slams the door.

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