Edges. Her grandfather taught her about edges, the deep secret borders of rooms, tall kitchen stools where a child's legs dangled, missing a rung. He shouted move slowly, not making a sound, don't sing in your sleep, your song is too quick and too loud . . .
But her voice grew rose edges, petals bled on the rug, leaving soft stains he crushed when he closed out the lights, scrubbed his hands clean. His bay belly trembled, his vest pocket watch
keeping good time he heaped his plate full, syrup and biscuits, sausage and eggs, eggs swimming loose from the shell. His gold pocket watch keeping strict time, he spoke sweetly of Heaven and Hell. He hated stray petals, especially red petals, the color of clover,