For the Birds: A mid-week poem

Closing out National Poetry Month with a short video reading.

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IN THE DREAM


I wake up, because it wasn’t
all that interesting, the dream

especially in the context of 
writing a poem. Stumbled, stubbed 

my toe, felt myself veer toward
narrative when instead I wanted

coffee. Even now: quagmired
in the expectation that whatever

happened or happens in my mind
should be interesting, memorable,

must leave the reader (the dreamer) 
with some new way of thinking about

being awake. I leave the reader: must. 
She stirs, her body like coffee. She stirs

and the sheets wrap tighter around an
ankle and the sheets are also deer, living 

in my mom’s house. Someone please 
tell her it isn’t personal.