by Lisa Zimmerman Paniz GM Thin bar of light under the door, one daughter singing in her bedroom — she is holding, trying to hold or say, to speak up, speak out, her arms full of fresh sheets, the lost day cinched around her waist, invisible effort put forward and backwards into the dark hallway. She is saved by her daughter’s voice — half of the word or words scatter and drop from her hands in her mind. Stumble of meaning, ring of keys, jingle of roses opening in her girl’s