The Leaves Break Apart Into Tiny Stars
A poem of sleeping dreams and waking thoughts
In my dreams, I’m a fallen woman
moving in and out of houses
rubbing fall leaves on logs until they break apart into tiny stars
I’m with my daughter and my mother
at my grandparents’ house, but they aren’t there
so we throw things away
like the rocking horse bedspread that warmed my six-year-old body,
dolls, doilies, dried-up cosmetics,
mail piled up on tables, chairs, counters, and
a towering skyline of executive dysfunction
Meanwhile, I shoo giant green finches out of my grandmother’s yard while they caw incessantly
Then I’m cleaning out a college house shared with thirteen others
but they’ve done most of the work without me
so I awkwardly look for something to do
and eat chips to fill the time
I run laps around my childhood school, looking for the bathroom, and get the sense that I’m supposed to be somewhere else — but where?
