What her child says in her dream hurts her so much
that, in her dream, she runs to another room
where she tries to breathe or, if she can, stop breathing.
She had tried so very hard when they were small
to be there for them, sacrificing all
sorts of things she had not really wanted
to give each child precisely what she’d read
they needed or, authorities wrote, desired.
To hear this then! She wakes and sits up, stunned
at knowing, for the first time in her life,
that in dream and life she’d not been really hurt.

Which questions are appropriate? Nearly none.
To ask and answer questions brings unrest,
negation and embarrassment. Am I right?
You may well know an answer. Maybe not,
but either way there’s sure to be some swot
who will answer betterquickerfaster or at least
in a way that draws the attention of that beast
social scientists call Discussion. Here it comes.

Write a little. Write a lot.
Avoid words like ‘Hottentot’
Look up meanings. Drift down streams
of leftist leanings, rightist dreams.
Closure is often oversold.

The wind resembles cymbals made of cheese,
its music mute, or, if heard, absurd.
Perhaps it’s simply gone, but if so where?
Can absence ipso facto describe wind?
And you, where are you? People say you’ve died.
Where were you all those years they say you lived?
Perhaps we each were cymbals stored apart,
our music moot as that of those of cheese.