Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Body Dreams Itself

into an avenue of steam, the streetlights
glow a slick sheen. And down this road,
this August night thick as wet wool, a car
rattles. The body dreams itself heavy,
heavier—into the muscled flank
of a horse straining at a plow and then
it dreams itself a stalk of corn, husked
and kerneled, ready to be pig feed.
The body dreams itself a lime and thus the dreams
are technicolor—scarlet, turquoise, safflower.
(And lost are mirrors, shadows, wavering
reflections in the lake.) The body dreams itself
a postage stamp licked, a dirty sock, the twisted
wires in a phone. It loses its memory
and becomes the flavor of cauliflower, the gap
between a note tweaked from a saxophone
and a woman poised to dance. The body dreams
itself pocked, festooned, dwarfed, and slathered.
It wakes in its own arms,
loose flesh, glass
bones.

Copyright 2018 Sharon Fagan McDermott. From Life Without Furniture published by Jacar Press. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.

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Sharon Fagan McDermott