I woke rested. Had a night as fitless as my father’s. Easy sleeper, he puts cheek to pillow or ear to shoulder in the recliner without preamble. While my mother has protective wind-down rituals to quiet her thoughts, a television will do for him. Whether the show relays Mexican drug cartels or Holland’s tulips, his eyelids grow weighted as snow clouds stacking on the horizon.
Cradled in the lap of Sandman, I emerged from the silk topography swaddled in strands of dreamscape. Cells knitted, a caterpillar cocooned in a bough that didn’t break. Fog walk from the dawn-lit valley of the shadow of death. A prize lamb making her round way down the driveway to go sledding, her watchful mother having bound her in down and mittens.
A shine catches on a brass lamp, a leaf. My eyes baby eyes incapable of discerning edges. Every object in the room less matter than dense light & doing the opposite of dimming.
Amy Wright is Nonfiction Editor of Zone 3 Press and the author of three chapbooks with her fourth scheduled for release in 2014. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Brevity, DIAGRAM, Drunken Boat, Kenyon Review Online, and Tupelo Quarterly.