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Dreams

Mornings.  Fucking mornings cut into your skull.  Razor blade sunlight piercing the thin membrane between here and there. Netherworld.  The dream landscapes that terrify.  Last night I saw a guy bring in his newborn.  She was only just out of the womb.  The child was screaming.  The father ran as if her life depended on it.  She was dying, nobody runs like that unless someone is dying.  I could hear her squeals as he ran toward me, grasping the dirty towel bundle, cradling the kid.  He set it down on the table, frantically scrambling to find something: food, water, gauze.  The father grabbed a sandwich, white bread.  The towel opened.  The tiny child had no face, just flat with hair tendrils clotted thick with blood.  And a crack down the middle. Red and hues of orange surrounding the zigzagging line where the screams were issuing from.  Bone and flesh exposed,Venus flytrap mouth.  It’s father took a sandwich off the table, opened the child’s fractured face, placed the food within the shiny red pulp, then shut the bloody flaps sealing the head.    It’s arms grasped at nothings in the air, crying stifled only by moist chewing sounds.  Mornings.  They do this to us.  Back on the horsey.