Bernd  Sauermann

B e r n d   S a u e r m a n n

from Residence

III

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There are teeth under the bed where a boy sleeps. A door opens and a mother figure walks in. A boy falls in love with a secret, and a secret falls in love with a skeleton key. A lock appears and opens itself like memory. Sometimes, it’s almost too much to bear.

IV

A father laughs nervously when a door closes and a quiet rage obscures the view from the attic window. There is a man sweeping the street. A car passes in the rain and hisses a promise which fades like the Milky Way at sunrise. A shell is pressed to an ear. Almost daily, pictures curl at the edges like incoming waves.

V

A pair of hands in the bushes flutters like a bird, and a girl’s skin smells warm in the afternoon. With her hand tucked under her head, she feigns sleep. I show her my hands and tell her to think of them as birds. She cries and I hold her weeping hands and comfort her. Years later, I learn that feathers drift to the ground like a handful of vague memories, memories of hands and the warm scent of skin.