i dream my father back
BY STEPHANIE ROGERS
Don’t take me down to the dark, where the dog perks up
at her meat supper, teeth barbed
as grape vines. Watch the blood drip down
like wine harvested, purple off the incisors, the dream-
dog’s bird friend perched above my bed, ceiling
red with feather light. I want to wake up, divide
time between the kiss and the oh, my heart gone dizzy
as a merry-go-round, brain ground down
to mush, my lust weakening
the seams of me. Thanks, new boyfriend, sprinting
the hills to find me ripening
beneath the dream ceiling again. I watch its fire churn
like my father’s ashes, blazing, the urn
loaded up, the boats of my eyes
taking on water. Wake me. The dog snaps at my toes,
and who remembers where I stocked
my gun? The bird above me bleats like a lamb
through its beak to quake me with memories
of him: my father running toward me when I clocked
my forehead against a playground pole, the red
soup of the cut dripping, eye socket black,
swelling, Dad’s palm not
sopping up much. Then, the blood got his shirt, dirt
wet with purple humming, and the grass
sodden with my mess. I miss him, I guess,
because dreams plague me every night since
he left, my boyfriend carving my mouth out
with his tongue to help me speak again. Still
the dream-dog raps, the door to my brain-room cracked
and waiting for dark to prick my heart muscle. No light
but red, the bird’s feathers, crimson
as the snow that caught the brunt of my head wound,
my father’s hands, always his hands, moving
over and over to cover
the cut. Remember? Never not remembering, I dream
I scream down the dark, the dog, the bird
waiting, red as a brick office building, my
boyfriend not once in time to catch me before I slip away.
