The Men Who Took Their Dreams


I wander riverbeds

In my dreams

And think

About the songs

My grandmothers

Sang, when the winds

Beat the cottage roof


Broken skin

And torn hangnails

Decorate the hands

Of my kin

I watch women

Bare breasts

To the open sea

And scream

‘What about me?!’

Except, it’s all

In my dreams

And when I wake

The grandmothers

Are no more

And there are

Still wars

Carried out over kitchen

Tables, hurried into

The cracks of doors

Or under a hemline

So the neighbors can’t

See the bruising

Where are the grandmothers

Who fought for our voice

I’d rather tread riverbeds

Than exist in this vacuum

Of choice

I am, always in the water,

In my dreams,

Maybe it’s because

You can’t hear screams

In the swirling of currents

Like the men who took their


And stuffed them in

Sweet pies

For what is Sunday

Without dessert

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: