To what bedroom does the soul go
when the body carries us across
sleep’s private waters?
Is there a vase of flowers there,
tulips’ flaming boats?
(I’m rowing to a place
where my thoughts can clear.
My head is giving off a mist.)
Is it cozy there, like
a hundred hand-stitched quilts?
Or is it built of cold
catastrophe, of war that divides
a husband and wife?
An eyelid flickers, a trap
door snaps open, and the clear
pink skeleton of the dreaming
Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Melpomene
Contents | Mudlark No. 46 (2012)