Write My Way Out

In dreams I am slight,

thin, light, floating

like a wooden match

in water. I can’t

successfully run.

There is no grip

for my feet,

just loose dirt.

A short, pudgy goblin

approaches me,

sunlight behind him.

I wake to my breasts

being smothered

by the comforter.

There are loose pages

of paper on the nightstand

that contain my fear.

Fear carries me

like a stretcher

does the wounded.

Fear is wanting to save me—

drop me into the regular world.

I am left thinking of snakes

coiling around me

cutting off my air.

I fear the talons of birds

digging into my skin.

I have written about goblins

having nothing better to do

than stare at me as I eat

my porridge, their mean eyes

convincing me I am worthless

because I can’t find language

to move me from the house.

I pick up my pen

and write me out a window.

I am alone with language

now fueling my mind.

Nothing could be more beautiful

than slipping sideways

in a cloud on my way

to buying bread for birds.

Language grips me.

 Sleep will not

carry me off again, at least

not until I have cupped

my fear into a pint of beer

I offer the goblins

and leave my house

unscathed.