In the dream my wounds
were bandaged with
chains of paper dolls.
Each doll had "4, 11"
written where its eyes
should be.

It was my childhood house
but every room empty
& dark. When I went out
into the yard the front
of the house had a sentence
across the brick:
"They will not fill it."

There was no sound
anywhere except
my breath. When I
went back inside
I opened the oven
and saw a coffee mug
holding all my baby teeth.

The car in the driveway
held four scarecrows.
The television was dead.
The picture frames
all held the same photo
of me facing away.
Just before I woke up
I walked downstairs
to the fireplace and
in the ashes I heard
my own voice say
"not yet."