Monique
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A Child's Foreboding Dream
🕑 Added 2017-03-15 07:04:51 +0000 UTC New carpeting, yet to be unrolled,Made a perfect tunnel for matchbox cars
Maneuvered by two pairs of tiny hands
Our microcosm deaf to the goodbyes of our mothers
Telling their anticipatory farewells
Comfortable in the soft buffering of expectation
That we shall play the same game tomorrow.
My mother takes my hand
We descend from the porch,
The same four steps
On which I learned the strength and skill
To confidently climb.
She buckles me in.
I gaze ahead from the back seat.
The road is long and straight
And firm beneath us,
With the false, monotonous promise
Of appointments to be fulfilled
And arduous errands awaiting
That we should assume our tasks
As beings and doings.
Driving...
The music bends.
The car tips forward,
The road has ceased.
Broken its promise.
We fall, like the ellipses,
Which trail off of promises
Whose words were hung in refrain,
We fall,
Into the vacant lot
Of an abandoned grocery store.
I speak to my mother.
She is still and silent.
I unfasten myself,
Moving through the thick substance
Of apprehension,
I slowly pull myself forward
Peering over, through a mess of curls
I turn my head to the left
Almost catching a glimpse of my mother's face...
I wake;
In Mother's bed, alone.
She has gone to work.
The room is dark.
