Dreams

Dream of Sand Dunes
Day holds me up like a stick.
From a small room, I can see
silver foil on the ceiling and
concrete speckled floor.
You are in bed, or in a house
somewhere, or covered
in dirt, suffocating. Do you know

this desk lamp is on my face
every day. I lie in bed
and think of smoke rising,
my throat tightening into blackness—
coal, or jagged rock.
You hold this in
the palm of your hand, open
some nights, for me,
dark river rising
out of dry hills.




Dream of Holding Hands
Orange blue
clocks stop for me I see the ocean
frozen
eye of black pupil I see
that I envy you

Think I have your bone fragment in my brain
I do not
have that coal soot trail of enlightenment
oh brother
I dream of babies that hold on
with little hands
think I’m their mother



Copyright Kristina (Coker) Morgan, 2000