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.

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.