#2 /30 April 2 2012
Peter tucks letters under his pillows at night
to see if writers will come
and write his dreams for him.
His favorite is when an adventure writer
creates nonstop action sequences
with little filler.
Tonight,
a woman writing of her son
is caught underneath his pillow.
The words take him to another bed.
A room that looks familiar
but feels impossible.
He is in France.
The French flows from his mouth
like a wine that aches to be drunk.
War is on.
War is bursting the night sky
it is difficult to tell the bombs
from the stars
as the anti-aircraft guns
blast their savage tunes
full of guts, glory,
and gunpowder.
You can smell the burning wood
and feel the stone
being told to go back to dust
as it makes the air thick.
Peter feels something in his mouth.
He takes it out.
It is a piece of paper with a single letter.
The letter Y.
He places it on the floor feeling more appear
in his mouth.
“You must run.”
Is what it reads before it stops.
Back to feet,
down stairs,
down hallways.
Run away from the guns.
Run away from the stars.
Run away from the home.
Run away from the pillows.
His feet know these hills.
His feet know these roads.
He finds a cottage.
A cottage of a friend,
right where it should be.
But, it is different.
Thin.
He touches the house and it rips.
The story is already coming apart.
Maria, the author, prints out the pages.
She is shocked to see letters in strange places,
letters falling as she reads the story.
“You must run” each letter in a different font.
Small foot prints and smudges.
On the last page a boy
outlined in an alphabet
runs towards the edge of the paper
and smashes the dimensions
waking up in his bed.
Peter loves to put letters under his pillow
so that writers would catch his dreams
and make them their manuscript,
but, now he picks his letters more carefully.
Maria has framed the page
broken on the bottom right corner.
Letters dashed here and there.
Foot prints in irregular patterns
and a small hat outlined in alphabet,
wondering where her son is now.
to see if writers will come
and write his dreams for him.
His favorite is when an adventure writer
creates nonstop action sequences
with little filler.
Tonight,
a woman writing of her son
is caught underneath his pillow.
The words take him to another bed.
A room that looks familiar
but feels impossible.
He is in France.
The French flows from his mouth
like a wine that aches to be drunk.
War is on.
War is bursting the night sky
it is difficult to tell the bombs
from the stars
as the anti-aircraft guns
blast their savage tunes
full of guts, glory,
and gunpowder.
You can smell the burning wood
and feel the stone
being told to go back to dust
as it makes the air thick.
Peter feels something in his mouth.
He takes it out.
It is a piece of paper with a single letter.
The letter Y.
He places it on the floor feeling more appear
in his mouth.
“You must run.”
Is what it reads before it stops.
Back to feet,
down stairs,
down hallways.
Run away from the guns.
Run away from the stars.
Run away from the home.
Run away from the pillows.
His feet know these hills.
His feet know these roads.
He finds a cottage.
A cottage of a friend,
right where it should be.
But, it is different.
Thin.
He touches the house and it rips.
The story is already coming apart.
Maria, the author, prints out the pages.
She is shocked to see letters in strange places,
letters falling as she reads the story.
“You must run” each letter in a different font.
Small foot prints and smudges.
On the last page a boy
outlined in an alphabet
runs towards the edge of the paper
and smashes the dimensions
waking up in his bed.
Peter loves to put letters under his pillow
so that writers would catch his dreams
and make them their manuscript,
but, now he picks his letters more carefully.
Maria has framed the page
broken on the bottom right corner.
Letters dashed here and there.
Foot prints in irregular patterns
and a small hat outlined in alphabet,
wondering where her son is now.