'residue.'
i woke.
and my pillow was clammy
and pockmarked with the indentation
of hands that had clung
as though for life. as though
the nightmares were a haggard ocean
with little to lose
and this pillow-
the only driftwood.
it all made sense to a mind still dosed with
the gluey residue of sleep,
for the pillow was drenched.
sweaty and disheveled
i fell onto the floor, and waded on
rubbery legs through
the disoriented darkness of five a.m.
and watched myself in the mirror:
a wild eyed wraith.
and considered the scissors-
lapping the idea like oxygen
from a dish.
and i cut my hair in that daze,
letting the curls and ends
lay where they fell.
all over the carpet.
and when i went to bed again,
I dreamed that I had lived before.
MM
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Copyright CAROLINE ENNIS (all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
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