April is Poetry month...

And thus, it's the month when I make you consider hitting the back button and unsubscribing/de-friending me because I post my own poetry. But hey, what's a DW/LJ account for if you can't regale your f-list with terrible verse?


Untitled
by: Meg Freeman

I.

Last night I had a
terrible nightmare that
my mother was dead.
I dreamed my cell
phone rang and my
stepfather's voice
came across the line
like a babbling brook,
near incomprehensible
and only a few words
the worst words got
through. Breaking and
entering. Can't find
who did it. Your mother.

I dreamed I called my
grandmother, and I
wailed, like a wounded
thing. Her voice was clear
broad, vast as a gale
down a canyon.

She said, "I loved her
too," in my dream.
And then my mother
was really dead.
I screamed over the
line. I screamed,
pinched my thighs
in the dream and begged.


II.

I awoke. Relief was
cold and painful as my
sweat, as all that pain
evaporating in an
instant.

I was like a newborn
calf, all trembles, and
knocky knees on my way
to the bathroom.

I barely comprehended
reality and looked in
the dimmed mirror,
wondering what would
happen if it was real.
If that was a dream,
what will become of
me when it isn't?

I laid in bed the rest
of the night, willing
the phone not to ring
counting the seconds of
silence like a poor
person counting
their very last pennies.