Sunday Poems 31: "Dreams"

In the last few days I’ve been having dreams about fire. Our subconscious reflects our surroundings. On Saturday afternoon, drinking iced coffee and watching the sun move across the sky. At night, the winds pick up and rattle my blinds when I’m trying to sleep. I got up several times during the night to wrestle with the blinds which had something to say but I didn’t wake up enough to figure out why they were stuck and noisy and frustrated, tried to sleep. Sleepy all day. Hanging up laundry. I’m planning how early I need to wake up in the morning to iron my shirt and pants, because they were left in the washing machine for just a little too long. A damp cloth can help to put out a fire, but not if the fire is too hot.

Sundays are for wondering how much pain you have budgeted for one week. You’ve got to make it through seven days of not enough sleep, not enough food, not enough socialization, not enough exercise, not enough meaningful work. How do things always seem to add up to not enough? Planning out deprivation is a puzzle. Two sleepless nights mean you’re walking dead and you take the time to eat, but you must be cautious; your digestive system is comprimised from lack of rest and an abundance of stress. It builds up. You wonder when there will be relief. You plan a vacation. You know that the first day off you have you will get sick. You stroke your hair back from your forehead, wishing someone else could help you with it. Sometimes a poem free me from this sort of spiral, so below is one. As always, I’m here if you need to talk. If you think this will help a friend, please pass it on to them. Have a great week everyone.


And then it’s not the only automobile
going south.

Absorbing water, clearing smoke.

A memorial to home:
A pause in infrastructure.

You fall in the woods –
it’s different now – a firepit,
the home you’ve known.

We’re out of here,
we have put vinegar between our teeth,
we kiss in a borrowed bed –
just an imagining – the backseat –
a page flutters:
together, a way.

Raised off the ground,
the wind catches
the whole past rushes into mind
and now it’s only there.

A reflex:
shopping on the internet –
looking for a shipping address.

Originally published May 8, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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