Hammered Frames

Night‑sky lidded, sleep about to buzz with what will be
in the dream: Leigh's long lanky legs
sawn off at the shins like Ezekiel's angels', her deep‑set eyes‑
blue beryl wheels‑ and human mutable beauty‑
spark and tenor of electrum.

I was shy the day in group we hammered frames for stretching
paper‑ lay the wood across the table, sopped the Fabriano
with water, drew it taut and fastened it with tacks. Leigh
showed us how to close the corners flat as origami, and after
checking mine, smiled, "You must be good at wrapping."

I watch her in the dream, deplete‑ force fire from her beryl
eyes, drain white through hollow feet.

Long ago, in front of the class, I read a story containing her
name, enunciating it clearly to rhyme with sleigh. Our dour
fourth grade teacher corrected my error, the children sniggered.
She asked me to say it again and I parroted, Leigh.

Elana Wolff