SARAH JANE BARNETT
Playing Dead
That weekend I played dead under the covers
sand between my fingers from a hollowed out crab
that Sam brought me
back from the beach. He is asleep beside me, tired now.
Out the window a large model airplane
rises over the tree line. The pilot must be in our local park
walking backwards, making small adjustments.
I can’t quite make out
whether my son is sleeping or pretending to sleep,
his small body curled like a nut,
his back rising with each puff of breath.
The plane comes up again
the pointed finger of its body catching
the light before it tumbles away
and I try to pretend I’m a bending wave,
or a hollowed shell, or even the man
in the park, walking backwards, caught in
the grassy, wet feeling of the afternoon.
I try to pretend that when something goes
it simply drops from view.