Peter Davis  © 2005 All Rights Reserved

The Colonization of Dreams, Part I: The Border

Perhaps they are trapped in the nets cast
by televisions or the radios from the yellow
taxis, always blaring Love, Love or
Itís getting hot in here. They sit behind
windows covered in screens pocked with holes
where moths flit in, or locked behind grilles
in the windows of betting shops, the bulletproof glass
of the all-night bodegas where you can buy
chiclets or Marlboros or roses two for four dollars.
They all have headaches. They all remember when they
were someone else. A silence like the hour just
before the bitter sun, when dew settles on parked cars
and park benches, and women turn over in bed,
moaning to themselves, softly. They all have dry mouths
from speaking to themselves over and
over, the names they are sure are being erased by
gunshots, voices, accordions, the recordings of
gunshots, the backfire of cars, the hiss of
matches. They amuse themselves as children do,
by sitting very still and suddenly leaping upward, shouting
Surprise! or by inventing elaborate games with the
small tools they have left, two burnt matches, say,
a white pebble, the single feather of an unclassified
bird, the green of it in their transfigured hands.

Sheila Black
Copyright © 2005

 

Sheila Black received her MFA from the University of Montana in 1998. She has  had poems published in Poet Lore, Willow Springs, Blackbird, Redneck Review and many other journals. Her first book, House of Bone, is forthcoming from Customwords Press. She lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico.


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