I have the dream. My place
at the lunch table is cold
beneath me. My feet are
colder. I am out when they
laugh and it forms a bubble
of steel around them. Fort Knox,
I suppose.
This girl has come and
****** the sturdy, stone-cold
chair out from under me.
She doesn't utter a word and
they let her. The action turns
my feet to ice blocks; I resume
my slipping from September, a
dying forget-me-not in hand.
I feel I have no solid tether
now, no solid anchor to them
anymore. How did it get like
this? How did the dream end?
Can I turn up the heating? Can
I pick the flower back up?
Head pressed to stone by
her. The floor creates a
draft cold enough to seep
through to my marrow and
my fried nerves. How
do I carve it out,
Dolores?
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 4:39 PM UTC
I have the dream. My place
at the lunch table is cold
beneath me. My feet are
colder. I am out when they
laugh and it forms a bubble
of steel around them. Fort Knox,
I suppose.
This girl has come and
****** the sturdy, stone-cold
chair out from under me.
She doesn't utter a word and
they let her. The action turns
my feet to ice blocks; I resume
my slipping from September, a
dying forget-me-not in hand.
I feel I have no solid tether
now, no solid anchor to them
anymore. How did it get like
this? How did the dream end?
Can I turn up the heating? Can
I pick the flower back up?
Head pressed to stone by
her. The floor creates a
draft cold enough to seep
through to my marrow and
my fried nerves. How
do I carve it out,
Dolores?
Request permission to use this poem