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Monday's poem

This one was written by me. I had the great fortune to be accepted into a small workshop with the incredible Rosebud Ben-Oni. This was one of mine to come out of it.

The Night I Died

You told me many times that

you will not die in your dreams.

A handed promise, given out—

by whom I am still unsure.

You will not die in your dreams,

I remember so many voices

offering those words

spitting out of mouths

like confetti,

or moths.

Even a friend told me

of his own close call:

He was falling

in snow

dripping from a stake

a faceless ghost

and a gun,

and before there was nothingness

he woke

adrenaline rushing

such sweet relief

broken into sheets

as teeth triturated death.

But I have died in my dreams, once.

There was no escape for me


only a bed soaked in grief,

a solid immovable end with only


and terror

that slipped into my wakefulness

and walked with me back into life.

I remember,

the thinking within my dream

—is this what they call lucid dreaming? —

I am both of me: the one who is dead,

and the one who is witness.

What happens is this,

I die.

And when it happens I stand there.

I stand above my empty body,

and scream.


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