Sunday, March 11, 2012

bad dreams

the dreams have turned sick, and bad--
and dark,
dark movements of bodies and
horrible words are spoken--
i am lost, cheap, alone in them
so irreparably alone in them

my baby is nearly vapor
with sorrow,
the baby within me,
the one which i am supposed to care for
unto the time that it can carry another,
and even after and for ever until
the abrupt and lingering end

i think of what i cannot be all of my
forgotten days
i think of who i am not,
trickle my weeping bones

i am egg brittle and white;
if each face which i describe is mine
i am that moon drained of its
blood, that sad little bairn
buckled and torn by the dreams

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