Glacier

I am lying on a napkin of tulle that Harlan calls a bed. When my father returns I will wear footed flannel jammies even though it is summer and we have no air conditioning. Harlan tells me he will install air conditioning, and he makes papier-mâché ducts and hangs them like mobiles off nails sticking out of the beams. He makes a glacier from a piece of my wing that he says broke when I fell from the sky. I do not remember falling from the sky, but the glacier floats on the cement floor in a chilly discipline of silver, and inside the dryer penguins spin wildly. My father must be coming soon.