Archive
03/06/09
Between the Lines of a Dream
The dream I had last night had me, Has me yet, this Friday morning, As I do my damnedest to make sense of its contents....
My father has just died, earlier in the week. We've buried him in a snow-coated cemetery — Family, well-wishers, still trees, chittering chickadees —
Yet he's sitting across from me, In the booth at the café where I eat breakfast daily, And he's pouring his blood, from the coffeepot, into my cup,
Whispering "l'chaim" as I sip its steaming draught. He and I exchange superficial glimpses — The only small talk we can muster.
Then his visage sublimes into the newspaper I'm holding up. His spirit slips into the tiny black print, Disappears, just out of hearing distance, from my twitching lips.
I know my tongue is struggling to articulate something, But I just can't decipher what it is. Suddenly, I awaken, in my room/café, in my bed/booth,
To find my father sipping from a cup filled with my blood. He's reading the newspaper. I slip into the fine print, Trying to flee from his eyes, disappear between the lines.
03/06/09
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