Brief History of Male Nudes in America

Simple Yellow Cloth

y eyes open and quickly the water of my sleep clears. It's Thursday night. At first I'm angry because it's past one and 1have to go to work the next day. Daria is out there in the hallway and she's humming something that I can't name, and maybe it's because I've just been awakened suddenly, but the vague familiarity of that song is driving me crazy. There's a formula for remembering things; it's like walking backwards. It's based on the premise that every movement and thought is connected, and that by being methodical we can find anything: our shoes, our keys, our very lives. At night, however, I am not prone to reason or formula, though if there were an easy way to get my daughter back into bed right now, I'd use it. "Daria," I call, and I know she hears me but she doesn't answer, which is a kind of formula itself: a tiny fist that opens with nothing in it. I move to the other side of the bed and sit up. From there, I can see her sitting by the night light, her legs crossed, her arms folded, a 80 Simple Yellow Cloth Kl Simple Yellow Cloth winter child who is completely of my own making. Not that I brag about it. It's something I usually keep to myself. And mind you, it has no religious significance. Daria is a child created purely from my own desire, the repetition of my dreams, and the leftover Christmas candles I burned every night. Not magic, but will. Don't misunderstand. I like men. I like how they puff their cheeks out when they shave, and how they walk, and how they are really unable to lie effectively. In a given room on a given night I can turn and be totally undone by the sight of a man as he reaches for a drink. For me, the line that his arm makes as he reaches out is the very line between all passion and restraint. I've been in love twice and either of those men could have been Daria's father, but neither is. "Daria," I call again, and this time she looks up, and I swear, being childless was a curse. The first time I held her, there was a stone thrown into a pool and I knelt in the cattail and reeds, alive, attentive. Between us, a life exists on its own, something with heart and claws, a thing still kneeling at the pool. "Please go back to bed," I tell her, at which point she increases the volume of her song and turns away from me. That's what she's like. That's how calm and undisturbed she is in the middle of the night. It makes me flinch a little, for my daughter in the hallway has a voice that unfolds like paper, words that make sense only because she says them with such confidence. I'm sleepy and yet I marvel at her. Don't think this has all been ajoy, though. Mypregnancy was long and troublesome, which I attribute to the fact that Daria's conception was a bit out of the ordinary. For over two months I worked at it. The concentration it took was intense and I started losing weight. My mother would come by and ask what was up, I looked so pale, was that jerk David bothering me again? I had to think of objects repeatedly, things that have meaning: Chopin's back at the piano as the rain slowly destroyed the midsummer holiday. The glow-in-the-dark stars I pasted on my ceiling above the bed like a piece of the night sky Lo Fen-Lang had bought for a 81 A Brief History ofMale Nudes in America concubine before his dynasty crumbled. At my bedside, the Christmas candles burned hot and true. Bythe twelfth of May 1knew I was pregnant. I'm determined to wait her out tonight. "Children learn by watching you," my mother has explained. "Becalm and let her see what you want her to do." Daria knows I don't allow her to sleep with me, so she's been making her way to the hall in the middle of the night where she sings and plays until she gets sleepy again. She always wakes...