The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

Fugue

All she would remember when she woke

was how it began—the white car

snaking through noonday traffic,

the driver’s hand never leaving

the car horn, her fingers

tangled in her sister’s, who earlier

in the schoolyard begged her

to go faster, and she, knapsack in tow,

wondered why a horse galloped

in her chest or when it mattered how

slowly she walked, and why it was chill

in mid-June. And what was that look

on Mama’s face, upon finding her slumped

against the door? Why did Mama slap

her hand? Could she have helped

how blue her skin was, how mottled

like a thrush’s egg? They carried her

into the car then, made her lie down,

her eyes reeling as the sky unfolded

like those scenes in home movies

when her father forgot to turn off

the camera, left it running in the back seat

so it captured birds on telephone wires,

a girl leaning out a window, lampposts

that measured in yards the road

to the hospital where he worked, the last

frame before the city darkened,

flickered, faded to black.

Angela Narcisco Torres