You lie face down in a big bed and
wonder how you can breathe with a
pillow clamped around your face.
Your mouth tastes of feathers and
you smell your own acrid drool.
You jump at her voice when she says:
“Hey! I’ve come for my stuff!”
You look up but discover that you’ve
left your eyes on the pillow.
“Eyew, gross! she says.
“Put your eyeballs back in.
You know how I hate that.”
You do know this,
but cannot think of her name.
She begins removing furniture from the room,
dark wood marching past while you
struggle with your eyes.
When you can see again she says:
“Up! I need the bed.”
The bed moves from beneath you and disappears.
You don’t fall, but hang there in midair,
horizontal to the floor,
bedclothes floating like a magician’s trick.
You want to respond to this parade,
but are captivated with a long sling of drool
that catches colors from the early morning sun.
She does not return.
You want to attach importance to all of this,
but you go back to sleep
thinking of marching furniture and
how it used to be when things were still.
What a dream.
It’s fascinating to me how the dream translates to the page and how it moves when the poet assumes control. I have a short story called “And” (Tulane Review) that came out of a dream and survived the writer; a blessing.
Thanks for the like.