How Did You Get in Here?


In this dream, there are no doors. This dream is a corner and the edges on either
side fade like a vignette, the baby’s cradle hanging from an off-color ceiling while a
sparrow plucks a worm from the baby’s eye, which is smiling, which is impossible and
Bird children poke their heads up from the nest, perched on a plant holder clinging
to the empty wall. On the left, out the window, a sailboat in the distance.
Or is the window a painting? A mirror? Is the corner itself just an impression?
Or worse, only a reality and not a dream at all?

In the next dream something warm brushing past my ear, wings rising from the
boat as I listen for the distant whir of time and ice and fur shining. On into the comforting
night you row the body, and when you’ve forgotten the boat, death supports you.
I cannot see you, careful between your wings, the boat rising now. You need that
last sliver of the moon on your sleeve. You blame the sun for everything that cannot be
blamed on the wind, but the wind has traveled centuries to bring you this news: It’s not
easy breathing all over the earth.

And in the last dream, late at night, the stones are carrying their brothers to your
face in the far hill. A family comes slowly home to find you waiting in less than your
bones. (That was the end of the separate ocean, climbing back down in the tear of a single
child by the fountain, pressing her feet into the warm dry earth.)

Dreams like little nails, nearly as fragile as what they hold. I wanted to draw what
the nail would say, but the nail is not a nail and the nail is the way I get back inside.
I go outside and I’m not out yet.
I like it that way.
What are you doing with my hammer?

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.