Dream Cure
Because in his new life he’s a palomino,
he wants to show me how he sleeps
with his wife-gold flanks against white sheets,
manes spread on pillows, nostrils opening, closing-
while I stand there, embarrassed,
counting hoof hoof hoof hoof hoof...
And now he’s alone, still in bed—sick—
rattles in the ribcage—
and I’ve taken the surefire cure:
The Chinese Breakfast Tray.
First I prepare the room—exotic,
but not mandarin. This takes about thirty
seconds. Tea water is boiling
and I’m cutting up the delicious
rice paper for him, pleased at how well
everything is progressing.
He has confidence in me too,
which is the real cure, we both know,
but fail to mention for reasons of diplomacy.
The tray must be made of bamboo,
with strong legs, and must be placed
at precisely the correct angle to his chest.
This cure has worked for centuries in my family,
and I can see it’s working for now for him
as he leans back on the pillow
and spreads his arms wrapped in the red and blue
stripes of a boy’s soccer sleeves,
his cheeks glistening after play,
generations of excellent health
roaring through him.
Painting
I’m painting the floor of my room. I’m sure it’s the largest roo m I’ve ever seen. I’m painting it blue to match my lungs, in str ips from one wall to the other. It must be about two acres or so but it’s still pretty early. I’m not even tired though I’ve done se veral strips already. I’m doing it backwards, painting until my back hits the wall, then I turn and paint where I was just standing. Then I start back in the other direction. Mmmmmm. All t his blue. It must be midday now although I don’t have a watch. You don’t really need a watch when you’re doing something this interesting, painting blue paint on this two acre floor. Ready for the last strip. I slow down to really enjoy this last one, breathe in the lovely paint smell, like real sky. You’re wonderin g how I’m ever going to get out of here. Don’t worry, when I get to the corner I’m going to take a deep breath, and think about wings.
