The Warmth of Ten Fingers

  Dreams refuse to maneuver out of mind.

  I listen with ears of patience,

  wait until they are wheat-worn white.

  They are a thoughtless, tapping-temple

  thumb drumming

  while I rest with window facing chair.

  They occupy my space,

  until I lose my voice,

  loose my hair,

  become and disappear.

  These dreams are constant sets,

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  plays that lack memorized lines.

  Every room is of kitchen kind.

  The scenes are of unfed pets,

  who are domestic, resenting.

  The costume, a pink picked dress,

  pressed

  and each hair of mine

  made French, fresh, twined.

  This elaborate gown

  is not my bare, black desire.

  I wish for a vision of fingers

  to work these mean arms free

  and take this false skin from me.

  I scrape each bowl and plate chaste.

  My face is young peach clean.

  Mad beauty is an easy mother;

  she recalls essential sleep.

  -Kat Isacson

  Another old, angsty poem. And possible proof that I should be medicated... :P

  Thanks for reading! What are your dreams like? Feel free to share them in the comments -- I'd love to know! +k