TY - JOUR
AU - Chaney, Candace N.
AB - Candace N. Chaney in mim’s kitchen there always was a sizzle or a hum, and even in the bedrooms you could hear it. at night, especially. the refrigerator’s endless drone, the air conditioner’s. everybody was lonely and together. there were spaces in both and collisions. later it became the oxygen machine. today i am older than she was then, but less. my hands are useless for needle or thread or iron skillet cornbread or scrubbing heads of garden lettuce and dirt faced girls. instead, i am woman loosed. i sleep under store bought blankets of red and purple and gold. i have lovers and birth control. 74 when we fight, he always leaves the room and i pretend to sleep with one rainy window open and the other stuffed with air conditioner puffing hard and high into our separateness. then i cling to the old hums, hymns of the almost broken machines that lulled me to dream of leaving their song. but even when you get away, you don’t. perhaps, especially. where there were hills for neighbors, there’s a hospital. where there were lawn mowers, there are sirens. 
TI - The Air Conditioner and the Rain
JF - Appalachian Review
DA - 2008-05-09
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/university-of-north-carolina-press/the-air-conditioner-and-the-rain-tJdjGnKA51
SP - 74
EP - 75
VL - 36
IS - 2
DP - DeepDyve
ER -