Loose Threads

In the dream there’s always the same northern city, its steep hills,
drab government buildings, sidewalks clogged with dirty snow.
I’m walking, or driving. Or on the bus. My bicycle tires are
shredded. I have no shoes. Somehow I’ve mislaid my papers.
Forgotten my address. I’m panicked to realize someone I loved
has lost me again. I’m ashamed. Oh. I’m weeping.

I once had a therapist who loved my dreams. I was twenty-eight
and we were figuring it out together. I’d moved into town with
my seven-year-old daughter. I was looking for a job; might go
back to school; had a few friends. It was all a tangle. Her name
was Diana, but then she died. I stopped dreaming for a while.

When a sentence hangs over the edge, I take my little silver
stork-shaped embroidery scissors and snip it off. When clouds
smudge out the stars, my inner compass guides me into the atlas.
When I’m befriending the crinkled cellophane of my new skin,
I’m vaguely reassured by how the bones are still themselves inside.

Maybe that’s the whole story. Edging around the pothole, stepping
over the broken axle, making a clean getaway. Because I do love
the predictable arc and fall of a plot. That tight little tie-off
at the end. So here I am, tucking in the bedsheets, wiping off
the counters, lining up the shoes and spices. Watch me straightening
the curtains every evening so that the night cannot see in.