It’s midnight, the birds chirp in their sleep, the moon is a prickly old bastard.
Mother locked father in the closet to protect herself and the neighbourhood from his nightmares which burst out of him at the most inconsiderate of times
She leans against the door and says: “See the bigger picture into the future!”
He sits on a small hill of heels and replies:
“Make big needles in order to thread the droplets of saliva pinned under a blossoming Ox with antlers and wings, with long corkscrew lashes and grandpa ear bristles.”
“There you go off with your Bull again!”
He sings a hymn of giggles and chuckles.
She’s in the closet; she says these are not her nightmares, she worries herself to sleep.
A slit of morning light creeps across her eye lid.
Groggy, her body’s stiff and sore, She looks up at the door,
She says there’s someone, no, some-thing; there. On the other side
She can feel its enormity, The same atmospheric presence an immense tree with dark and rugged bark radiates, intensified by the expansive branches which blot out the sky, and the thick muscular roots that bulge out of the earth, creating their own little caves with their own plethora of alien and grotesque fungi
Her bed crushes like a trodden-on can under its celestial force, its cosmic odour eats away at the carpet and walls,
She grows ever more weary. Heavy.
“Cold,” her whispered word echoes on and on, diluted only by her thoughts,
Its face, she notes, is much smaller. Smaller than her own, its a face without a nose or mouth, but completely black eyes, eyes that reflect a dense corner of space,
This nightmare which is not her own, hovers on the other side, patiently, and she can hear it thinking – waiting
“If only,” she says, “if only I could get some rest.”