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Dreamscape

Frank De Canio

I’ve taken my mother to the airport.
God only knows how. I don’t own a car,
and if I did, I wouldn’t know how
to drive it. Anyway, I’m there, reading
The New York Times. She tells me I’m tired.
Of course I’m tired. 7 am is not a good hour
for night birds to begin a journey.

The scene metamorphoses.
Wrapped in a cocoon, I’m
lying in a hospital ward with a bevy
of nurses cradling babies in their arms,
as if they’d charm them out of Eden.
It doesn’t matter. The road back is blocked
by white-frocked seraphim brandishing
hypodermic needles. The babies are being processed
like slabs of meat for the world’s consumption.

They do this with the kindly air
of ministrants for the dispossessed. Soon
the children will be suckled at the breast
of lesser angels, on the first leg
of their fruitless journey. It’s the last
succor they’ll get before plummeting to earth,
where there’ll be no survivors.

I’m feeling sorry for them
as I pull myself
out of the sweating wreckage
of night’s suffocating sleep,
bracing for catastrophe.

Previously Published in Stray Branch Spring 2010

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