My editor has grown old. Any minute now he’ll die
and I’ll be on my own with my confusion and my ego.
There is a Little Person in this dream. He propositions me for sex.
I say I am sorely tempted but I’m not. I just love him.
I am running, I don’t want to stop. I love the feeling of it,
the rhythm of my feet on the ground, the effortlessness of it.
It’s like when I was a child, before my body became earthbound.
I can hear officials talking. They say my editor
has murdered someone. I don’t believe it.
They say they will pick him up in the morning.
Should I warn him? Is he dangerous?
I want to go home now. I have forgotten to feed my dog.
This priest will help me, just as soon as we get
all these sleeping children out of her car.
to simple darkness
Nighttime dreams are just nuts, aren’t they? Mind you my daytime dreams are often full of blood and guts, the worst-that-can-happen scenario, the car going over the cliff in exquisite detail. I have had to work on it. One wouldn’t want to magic it into being!
And then there are the sort of dreams that Martin Luther King had, dreams of hope, dreams of intention. I had lots of them when I was young; I was going to change the world, with art, or political demonstrations, or something, if I could fit it in between joints.
Then I got pregnant and did change the world with one gorgeous being, my daughter.
a child sits on a stump