Fighting to FROWN,
Rather than giggle
So very serious
The little girl pokes and prods
The peas and carrots on her PLATE
With MISTY eyes and trembling lips
“But my horses need shoes”
That plaintive voice rises
As I try to explain
Plastic toy horses
Need not a SMITH

Georg’ann

In the dream I’m holding
the bread KNIFE, jagged
metal so sharp, long blade.
It feels foreign, dangerous.
A weapon to wield,
rather than a culinary tool

A towheaded CHILD comes in
to the kitchen from somewhere.
She is not mine, yet she is mine
to protect. From something.
We walk out the back door.

I HOIST her up onto the brick
garden wall, then myself.
I jump down to the street,
she jumps into my arms.
We walk down SMITH street.
Once again the bread knife
is in my hand like a sword.

The alarm jolts me awake.

Heather