Stirring : A Literary Collection

Rebecca Clark


In that dream
the music of Carlos Santana
did not vibrate in the background.
There was no peppermint tea sliding
like honey down my throat.
The soft pear did not declare it is
Ripe when yields to gentle pressure.
There were no children staring glumly
into a bowl of thin yogurt.
My mother did not exclaim vividly
about the big piece of fish,
the lovely cabbage salad.

In that dream there were women
with dark eyes and skin, priests
with white gauzy robes, white domed temples
in the glaring light of the sunís hot eye.
In that dream I stood on a hillside
looking down into mouths full of words
I could not see, words so fast
and twisted that my tongue
was blank in reply and the air was still
like the back of my hand that did not move
to wave them away.

Location: Bow, Washington
Publications: 4th Street, Switched-on Gutenberg, Dragonfly Review, Red River Review, The Horsethief's Journal, Gumball Post, Midwest Poetry Review

Stirring : A Literary Collection

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