Before My Eyes by Caroline Bock Page B

her tonight on her forehead six times, one for each of her six years.
    â€œI can’t wait to be seven,” she says, and I almost scream in exasperation. “You know why, Claire?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause then you’ll give me seven kisses every night, won’t you?”
    I want to give her another kiss right now, but I know what it’s like to wait and plan for things like that.
    â€œWill Mommy be home for my birthday? Please say yes.”
    â€œI can’t,” I say. “Do you want another kiss?”
    â€œNo,” she says. “Just leave the light on. One more thing, Claire.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDid you double-check the front door? Daddy is always saying to lock the door, that you never know,” she says, sounding like a grown-up. I don’t ever want her to turn seven.
    â€œChecked and double-checked.”
    â€œWhat is it that ‘you never know’?” she says, drifting off.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll dream of Mommy tonight,” she says in a sleepy, faraway voice.
    I hurry out. Take five, six steps into the darkness of the hallway, before I hear, “Claire? Claire?”
    I can’t do this. I’ve been with her all day. I can’t be mother and father to her. I don’t say anything. I want to go—anywhere, or at least be alone to think and write.
    â€œClaire?”
    I suck in my breath. He should be here now. He should be dealing with her. What if he doesn’t come home? What if it’s only her and me? I push the fear down.
    Her voice calls out, louder now. “I love you, Claire.”
    I breathe. “I love you more, Izzy.”

Barkley
    Friday, 8:00 P.M .
    In the pitch black in front of the computer screen, the brain filters information at full speed. I must connect with her. She is my vision, my creation. Filmmakers would label her the ingenue. The naive young girl. The one who must be taught. She is mine to teach.
    Next to me, the super-sized bag of corn chips and jar of hot salsa are half-emptied. May have to venture out for more. Must feed the body.
    I type with one hand and eat with the other. The body and mind are two entities, paralleling each other, an independent and dependent clause. The body needs food to keep it satiated, calm in front of the screen. The mind must roam free.
    Words jump on the screen.
    I found her in a half dozen places on the Internet, and I am now at her blog, inside of her words. Claire’s words. Stare at the particles, verbs, nouns, split infinitives, until they are in straight, even lines. I am reading a poem from Claire. My Claire. I absorb each syllable. I am not alone. I am with her.
    The voice intrudes. Correct me: instructs. I will sing of mercy and judgment. That is a poetic line. That is truth.
    Her poem is not about mercy or judgment. I say this aloud, to the voice in my head. Problems arise with the poem. Not that I am a professional critic, yet even I can see beyond the words: the grammar is arbitrary.
    Who makes the rules about where to break the line in a poem? Is there a rule book, like in sports, to consult? I understand from my private studies that there is a format for scripts and one must follow it or be punished by the film industry.
    The words waver in and out of focus. I stare harder.
    Is there a rule about periods versus commas versus semicolons at the end of the line? Doesn’t a semicolon connect two independent clauses? Didn’t my English teacher at that community college call semicolons the bastards of grammar and want them banned from papers? If there are no rules of grammar anymore, what does that say about our society? Have we given up even the basics of how to control our poetry?
    I eat faster, more chips, more salsa.
    Neurons ping my brain like an electrical storm. I shiver. I am in the center of the storm. Charged. I can smell ozone, a rarified acrid smell of fire in open skies. My left hand falls away from