Dreams and Nightmares

    False Hope 

I had a dream about you,
and it was like eating leftovers 
of the veal piccata you made 
that spring eve in 2004
before you went vegan,

save for the few times a year
you crave fish
or when mussels are the special
at one of the Michelin-starred restaurants
to which you are drawn, 

because, to you, life
is all about flavor, or should be,
and you want life to taste rich 
and melt in your mouth
twenty-four seven.

That recollection has left me
peckish and standing in the rain
for eight hours straight
with false hope of getting a seat
at The French Laundry.


-

 
    It’s Not Me

Waking from a dream, you roll away from me, 
toward the wall. I can hear you mumbling something
about “cheating bastard.” I know

it’s not about me specifically,

but your therapist says that you carry
residual PTSD and trust issues

from your mother, your father,
and every past relationship you’ve had.
I know it’s not me. 

Still, you shrug me off, when I try to touch you.
You give me the silent treatment all day,
and I walk on eggshells.

Tonight, I sleep on the sofa in the den,
and, at almost midnight exactly, I stir to the sound 
of you sobbing on the floor by my side.

You say you had a nightmare and you’re scared.
I tell you that you’re safe, and I hold you tightly.
You whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”


-

 
    Remembering the Dream 

I am sleeping tonight
on an overstuffed mattress.
It is lumpy but soft.
I roll into the basin
my body has spent 
nearly a decade perfecting.
It cradles me in the dark,
comfortable and familiar.
I am letting the wind
outside my window
rock me, as I slumber, my 
snoring shaking the rafters.
I am letting the clamor
of my rapid eye movement
act as my exercise 
for the week, and I am
warm for a moment.
I am letting the song
of my digital alarm clock
represent the end of time. 
I am remembering the dream
I had almost forgotten.

-


"False Hope," "It's Not Me," and "Remembering the Dream" are included in Dreams + Nightmares, a 2023 anthology of work by the poets of Poets Northwest in Houston, Texas.
 

Eric

Two from across the pond

Lonely Spirit

While collecting souls, 

I stumbled upon the bones of an old friend. 

We lost touch during the hurricane, 

when the wind was blowing, 

and rain beat against the window. 

The lights flickered then failed. 

I left to buy whiskey and a blanket 

to keep us warm.

When I returned, it was dark. 

The door on the porch was ajar 

and he was gone. 

How his bones came to lie in the desert, 

I do not know. I may never know.

But I drank that bottle alone,

wet and tired.

-

Midwest Mud

The mud seems almost fresh,
but the footprints fossilized

over a frozen winter, exposed

by ebbing snow.

They were likely left
by settlers moving south, seeking
steady work somewhere in Texas,

where oil has yet to run dry, where
dreams have yet to die, where
mud is still soft and squishy.

-

"Lonely Spirit" and "Midwest Mud" are included in issue 13 of Turbulence Poetry, a British poetry magazine established in 2009 and based in Hull, East Yorkshire, England. To obtain a copy of issue 13 or a subscription to Turbulence, visit the "Buying Turbulence" page. 

This is my first overseas publishing credit!

Eric