Elizabeth Hitchcock

FIVE SEQUENTIAL STRESS DREAMS

 

1.
Ice sounds of December, distant through summer streamers,
hydrangeas strung in the crooked doorway
between your bedroom and the kitchen table...
three green legs, one oak unstained.

You will not disappear.

2.
That's when burrowed in the down
dreams of a park underground, the season lost
in a town- brimming with ambulances blue-winged and witty,
speeding between parkways. Lovers kiss there
in the cave where men disappear.

3.
Uncertainty: sunflowers brought in the tide,
floating above sand they ask do you still love?
The reassurances you tell yourself pushed aside
to warm pools, where crabs stretch claws
toward the rising quarter moon.

4.
You take pictures of the moss
no one will see, tread twelve years ago
by a girl, pricked toes bloody
lying between damp logs or at least
as far as you remember.

5.
We were sleeping in the frozen house
where your father died, his paintings still hung
oil on canvas shrines. As I curl against you
the bed where your father fell backwards,
left arm stiff, right hand on his chest,
is downstairs remembering
when you wandered in two days after Christmas
and found the body.

 


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