‘the morning after’

‘the morning after’

the morning after, bleary eyed

and tasting bitter, pondering the dream

that seemed so real there it was

in the kitchen. the brick. glass shards

like spilled salt. the christmas cactus

broken in the sink. a cool breeze

carrying the smell of rain. hand-sewn curtains

hung up on jagged edges. thick, old

and crumbling, pulled from under a tarp

in a backyard or a construction site

or dug up in the dark, an unsuspecting patio now

a mangled, muddy checkerboard.

reddish, a little chalky. good heft. imagine

the arc it might make in the rain. the library,

the QFC, Kay’s corner bar, the Papa John’s

and hardware store all made of the same.

brick on brick. now here in the kitchen.

blankly staring back. in the middle of the fever

dream were many muted voices. desperate cries for

help not quite discernible. as if in a locked room

or in the middle of a river or just under the rush

of a passing semi. a dream within a dream.

and now the brick. and the sounds outside

coming clearer.

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