It is 1990 in a deployed town.
I wear the dress to the interview, its
broad white bib like a side-table linen.
When I exit the building, Animul
runs to me as if I am engulfed in flame.
And so I must be.
In the dream: I’m on the farm,
my mother at the bottom of the stairs,
youthful and not yet char.
She is wet, as though having fallen
into a pond or well and I awaken.
Animul comes home
with tail on fire, is insatiable for knowing.
|Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked|