Interpretation of Dreams, for My Daughter
published in Jivin' Ladybug
sleep of a small, sated innocent. No howling,
primal twilight. No monstrous, beating
heart rattling the crib.
(or is it me?) devours every
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
I just dream. Some dreams
are also prayers. The best ones recall
the naked grin, the bare brine tongue
of a slumbering angel.