The nightmares come in flashes,
like photos held under a light and pulled away. The boy with his arms stretched
on a cross, his head hanging down, his t-shirt in tatters, jeans low on his hips,
blood dripping down his feet and off his toes. My father in his robe standing
in front of the wall of fire as our mother led us out of our burning house in
the middle of the night. The angel drifting over the street in front of my
house like a cloud or smoke in the cold night air, before it turned toward me.
I wake up with a jolt, gasping for
air, fighting the pull of sleep that leads right back to the images I want to
forget. The one image I will never name. Sleep drags me back under again and
again, until I fight my way free of the tangled sheets and stumble to the
bathroom. Water from the tap tastes different at 3am. Or perhaps that
bitterness is just another part of the dreams. In the morning’s light, it never
tastes the same.
No need for a light to disturb
those still sleeping. I kneel at the altar in my closet and bow, resting my
forehead on the cool, soft wood. My sweat is my offering. My fear is my gift to
the gods…
TBC?
Dogs in House
|
Brindle, Houdini
|
Music
|
Lion King
soundtrack
|
Time writing
|
~15 minutes
|
April word
count
|
1976
|
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