Wednesday, April 09, 2008



A warning growl alerts me.  Mountain Lion, hidden
on an overhanging beam.  The throaty growl intensifies.
If I run, she will leap.  Keeping the beam between us,
I back away, pencil clutched in my teeth to hold it at bay.
I slide under a quilt for cover.  Puny protection
when she jumps down and long claws gash my flesh
through the fabric.  I am afraid to call for help. If my daughters
come, the lion might hurt them.  I grab her jaw.  Teeth pierce
my hand, like nails.  In spite of the pain, I hold on.  And cry out.  
I try to scream, say help.  Help.  Help!  Still worrying
about the girls.  I try to scream, but my voice whispers. 
Weak, nearly inaudible.  No sounds of rescue, only silence.
I try again, and again fail.  I suck in air, gather my strength,
shout, HELP aloud and loud, and wake myself
in another bed in another room in another world. 
My heart crashes, and panting, I listen.  Have I wakened
my son yelling?  No sound.  Catching my breath,
flexing my injured hand, I lie still while dream fragments
fall away around me.  But another shell of tenacious dream
encloses me.  I push out again, and yet again, but am surrounded. 
In here with me, a lion still sits on my chest sheathing
and unsheathing its claws.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

this is a brand new dream poem.

You can see the dreamwork here.

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