When the subconscious offers so much free material, it seems a shame to waste it. But not all dreams make the creative cut and become poems….

***

My mother asked where would you be if you could be anywhere?

 

I felt foolish. I couldn’t conjure a specific place.

 

I could only think: Water.

 

***

My brother was Frankenstein.

 ***

The victim had been found floating, his body contorted into some sort of obscene, folded position like a yogi.

 

The man and the woman claimed to be actors. They visited me at my bedside, in a room with a peaked roof and a large window.

 

“We’re playing Jason and Medea,” the woman explained.

 

“But what attracted you to the Greeks?” I asked.

 

“Well, they’re just so weird,” she said, and began to talk about historic personages and gods as they were interchangeable.

 

“The Gods weren’t always so weird,” she said.

 

Each time I stopped to think about what she’d said, I’d look out the window where water was always rising.  No lawn, no grassy border, no bank separated my house from the water that filled the windowpanes. The water looked wild, full of lines and patterns that formed and disappeared into one another. Instead of feeling scared, I felt comforted as if somehow I was rising and dissolving too.