NIGHTMARES OF AN OLD HOUSE
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I dreamt of an old house;
fractured glass sweating on rough hewn sills,
dripping onto scarred, yellowed baseboards;
tears in the woodwork.
Temporary children played in a yard
of dandelion snow,
choking the remnants of the uneven rows
of a vegetable garden;
sprigs of miniature carrots still fighting for the sun;
playing in the darkness of the pall of a beast,
its foamy jaws open to devour these children of the weeds;
a beast of cold eyes and hollow breath,
lurking, stalking in the emptiness of their stomachs,
and the hopelessness of their hearts.
I am haunted by this dream house,
by visions of these children,
pale in the blue glow of a television,
their warm faces flat against cool, puckered linoleum,
watching Mr. Sullivan with his broad shoulders
and black hair
pointing to Lennon amidst the screams of a crowd.
The children quiet in the meaninglessness of history.
I dreamt of an old house.
Walking through hallways of peeling paint,
awed by the bareness of existence
as a crowd of red faced children fight
for space in a single standard bed,
the soft coolness of the harvest moon
exposed through broken curtains;
the shadow of the beast resting
on the fraying tiles of the weathered roof.
I am haunted by these children,
arising from fitful sleep in slow procession
to a large table of unmatched chairs,
eating bowls of hot oatmeal lumps
floating in icy milk,
the color of their cheeks
drained like meat frozen in a box.
The chuckling of the beast,
a mild undercurrent
to the flickering cartoon mice
on the television.
I dreamt of a beast in an old house.
A skeletal father in a carcinoma bed,
sweating stains on the sheets,
his only legacy to the hunger of the children
bearing his name.
The beast howled at the moist night,
as blue coats hoist the man
into the black doors of a one way ride,
the children sitting quietly on broken steps of the porch.
Even though I awaken,
my bed a river of wet, torn sheets
and displaced pillows,
I am haunted by this dream;
this vision of children
trapped in the ivory sharpness of this beast
laughing as he gnaws on their souls;
laughing at me
as I recognize their faces;
their memories like scars from an old wound.
David E. Cowen
Copyright 1997
All Rights Reserved
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