Nightmares are another thing

the source on tap, finally
pours out hair and butterflies

no solutions no

accusations no

prayers no incriminations

only innuendo

ungovernable hints

like someone forgot to hide
or else they died and got lost out back behind the woodpile near the outhouse
quite next to the clothes line tree

and somehow you fail to seek or
perhaps you set a trap and your mom
she’s putting the laundry out
and it’s only a yellow sock
which belongs to no one
and it rains



Her insomnia lay about her like so much therapy
inert and hindering
useless and persistent
mocking her to change

Her insomnia hung her down like someone else’s luggage
filling her with bus-boy exasperation

Why should she
hang on to these things?

Her insomnia had a handle on her stomach
ladelling from it her impatience like life
from a bog

She sat up
as she would lie down also
She lay down even as she sat up also

Something like a prison her head lay angry

Something  like a nest long left
in a tree
smiling its grief
through the leaves


Somehow their old lady heads

got turned ’round to watch me.

Somehow the oyster glazed eyes turned
right ’round like a
child-proof cap.

I am obscene with height and power,
with facile fingers
and splendid spine.
Sixty eyes in laborious gaze
wrenched from the wheelchair’s tedium
pick me out like the first ripe berry.

My grandmother sits.
This alone is disturbing:
that she should sit the day long
in fireproof pajamas.

Even her god will find her in slippers,
a Bingo chip in one blue hand.

She waits.
Eager for me to speak those words so full
of the world outside.

© 1993 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved