Wake Me Up
I am standing in a field.
Hills roll like knees under covers.
A weepy sun sets to my left.
I must be looking north.
I am not alone in this field.
Away from me, a man struggles
with a small animal by his feet.
My father has a raccoon in his arms.
There is no front on this house.
It stands naked like a doll’s house
with people moving inside.
The kitchen is to the left
and to the right
bisected by a hallway
running to the back
and into darkness.
He hefts the raccoon
and sets it in the loft above the kitchen.
Rabid nails on floorboards.
I feel my feet in the dewy grass.
Wispy rye bends to my weight.
My toes pull at the soil.
Time ebbs against the wheel
as a pall of silence caresses my thoughts.
Starlings erupt from the tree line,
whorling and swirling
stark against a lilac blanket sky.
I do not blink.
I have not blinked.
Fluttering embers
dissipate into dusk’s gloom.
I look across the field.
Dad steps into the house
the only sound
are heels of boots down the long hall.
He passes through the kitchen
of this house.
A stranger emerges from the left of the kitchen.
In a robe, he stares after my father.
He retrieves a knife from a block.
The stranger’s pivot out of sight
is a thriller movie noir.
I am rooted.
Still not blinking.
From the fog of the hall
my father plods toward the opening
of this dollhouse
in an unremarkable field.
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Footfalls align with the countertop.
A robed straight arm swings into view.
The knife plunges into his chest.
Like dividing a watermelon in summer.
I see his whites and his mouth opens
with no sound.
I am released from my spot.
In this dream, I can run.
My feet squeak against wet grass
straining for purchase and speed.
I ascend as the last starling
like a phosphene dissolves from view.
I sense the breeze in the trees.
I hear his heart slowing
as I reach the opening.
A stranger sits at a kitchen table.
I snake a chair with my foot
disregarding the man clinking a spoon
in his coffee.
I squeeze Dad’s shoulders
staring into him.
He falls into the chair.
His body shudders under the skin
feeling the end.
He goldfishes words at me
no sound.
Wheezing in the chest.
Tremors.
Sweat.
The stranger walks over
and stands behind me
sipping.
Tsk tsk tsk.
No time now as he blows his coffee.
Why?
Sip.
Why?
Hand presses terrycloth against his tummy.
Why?!
Dad crumples the back of my arm.
His face shifts and shadows
mirroring the coming darkness of night.
Our eyes hold time,
space
and history
in this moment
pooling in the air
between our faces.
The robed man shuffles down the hall
and pixelates
as he whorls and swirls
into the sunset.
Fizzled firework ash
pops like bubbles
on driveway pavement.
I look back at him.
I relax as he rests against me.
Tears, the only blood moving.
A dried wood hilt
at attention from his chest.
Red-brown wet through his shirt.
I hear nails scratching boards above me.
I am alone in this house.
There is no one but me.
