A dream
thoughts are covered by old bed-sheets.
by John Wise
where it might be storming
or maybe I just have to pee,
I am watched by oyster-pearls
where my father’s eyes used to be.
His words crack the glass of my reply,
an echo of ventriloquy,
where in the attic of my mind,
thoughts are covered by old bed-sheets.
Not like those marbled mannequins
masterfully adorned with drapery
dripping wet, a gossamer as translucent
as a sunset. These cloaks, converging
around guttural croaks, dance with
flickered tongues, the crackle of leaves.
Memories of broken bottles,
burgundy piled beneath our serpent feet,
beneath the distance I fail to reach
when, once again, my father speaks
and I wither beneath winter’s whimper:
steel-frosted words dislodge from his teeth.
My shame is summoned. He points
his crescent finger, the distance coffee
black and cigarette yellow, towards nowhere
nearer: where bliss blends with misery,
where burden blends with choice. Each
world is composed of mirrors, reflecting
all our many selves, all our too-few hours
before I wake in one, before your passing
in the other. Again, you smother
my gutter of words buried deep,
and we’re left to deepen the footprints
we tread daily in circular routines
to go on,
as much as we do now,
as much as we did then,
not speaking.
John Wise is a middle school English teacher living in Florida. Whether writing on his own or when working with his students, he promotes writing that is deeply rooted in curiosity, collaboration, and the sheer joy of creating. John has poems published or forthcoming in Midsummer Dream House, Illumen, Teach. Write., and Disjointed Lit.
