Surfacing

The memories have been ripped,
drowned,
burned,
and buried alive,
but a quiet word
lets them gasp for air,
look around and say,
"I had the strangest dream."

Dreamwalkers

All of these things that were never here

are here still.

Voices creep through the air vents,

but the words don’t really sound like words;

A whisper cuts through them all:

Don’t bring tomorrow, it says.

Don’t bring tomorrow.

I know what’s going to happen,

and I walk on the shards of glass

anyway.

Ask me what poem the next night will bring

and my stomach twists in fear.

The only times I drown

are when I wade into the river

myself.