Interpretation of Dreams, for My Daughter

published in Jivin' Ladybug

In my dreams sometimes I relive the thrilling first


sleep of a small,  sated innocent.  No howling,


primal  twilight.  No monstrous, beating


heart rattling  the crib.


Someone’s mom


(or is it me?) devours every


creeping horror.


Awakening, I am clueless,


bruised deaf, screaming like a fish.


Maybe mothering is only a question


of which chunk is eating whom?


Ritualistically, I might squirt


menstrual hexes across


the sheets. I might chant crone’s wisdom.  Or mumble a prayer


against the scary future.  But I don’t


do anything,


I just dream. Some dreams


are also prayers.  The best ones recall


the naked grin, the bare brine tongue


of a slumbering angel.