Edward Hopper, Eleven A.M., 1926. Oil on canvas, 28 x 36 inches.
I’m in the ochre of it, the end of morning. The light is thick, impasto, nearly edible. Across the courtyard I hear a woman singing to someone. What is the song?
I keep looking at my body—how is it possible? That I will sing to someone? I have never sung a note to someone else, not so they could hear. I can’t fasten my garments—it’s early and so subtle that nobody can tell. I have not told George. It is maybe because I know he will be glad; his face will fill with soaring afternoon. But I want to know for certain that it will be alright. The last time the blood was deep as mahogany, red as the inside of my own throat.
I haven’t dressed. The last of my skirts I tried on, cream orange; I couldn’t cinch it, threw it over the bed. He was due home hours ago; the night shift leaves him gray.
Inside the womb, they tell me, it’s dark as charcoal. I remember in school how charcoal got under our fingers when we drew. The nude models, the women—I remember thinking their bodies looked full of gravity, full of time; they had fed their children with their bodies. Stretched, uneven, complicated shapes. I remember thinking: that won’t be me. In high school, a boy called me slight. But now I want a body full of gravity—one that knows more. The hunger with which I want it frightens me.
She’s singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb”; that’s what it is. I try to match her pitch, just quietly. It means nothing much, but it feels tender in my throat, like the melody is a creature I’m trying to hold aloft. I get louder—I might travel across the courtyard.
The light is high yellow now, warm as toast. I go to it. I want to eat the light; I don’t need any clothes. I feel like velvet. Is that the lock, the sound of his shoes at the threshold? Now. You must tell him when he steps into the room. The day is beginning and beginning.