They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Rapid Eye Movement | Claire Bowman

in the afternoon.

bells and human voices


trapped in the dream

about snow

in Texas.

in the afternoon.

a woman takes her love’s name

personifies the dead

bangs her head.

are we always afraid?

betrayed by my own subconscious

my eyes make dark without

bodies. long snakes hanging

from my arms by their fangs.

a child dreams of flying

by pumping her arms

as if in water.

the world gifts us

with little smoke breaks

from fake happiness.

is this all?

of course not.

we are not all addicted.

we do not all sleep in the afternoons,

[ ostracized. ]

I imagine myself as a man,

drinking scotch in the evening

and building porches.

hair squirting like flowers from my skin.

god never intended these

sleeping bodies.

never went to sleep

with a man

touching lightly with his

foot, which means

god never knew

what it feels like to

cradle your own consciousness

in a warm hive.

at 2:00 am I wake

with my mouth open,

my mind a moon still

half submerged

in the snow.

the houses where we grew up are dead.

all those little mythologized guilts.

digging up squirrel bones in the backyard.

buzzing sounds as you stalk your likeness through the trees.