I.
I must be
four or five.
Run out the back door
of my father’s church
turn the corner and see
a red, white, and blue
snake chasing its tail.
It’s either
a memory
of something
that happened
or memory
of a dream.
One of my first
memories not planted
by a story I was told
of something I did.
A story
I remember
and have
never told.
There is another
of being hit
by a car
of fainting
the moment the car
would have hit me.
The car
squeals
to a stop
The driver
helps me up
and asks
if I’m okay.
I look up as
one of the twins
pass on the sidewalk.
We share a look
as I tell the driver
I’m fine.
I may or may not
have asked the twin
to keep this secret.
It was the night
I gained the privilege
of being able to cross
the street by myself
I think
this is
a real
memory.
The memory
of the snake
may be a dream.
If it is,
it is certainly
the first memory
of a dream
that I recall.
II.
Night of my
high school
graduation
Drunk off Cisco
tiptoeing into
my bedroom.
I dive
for the bed
brushing the
light-switch
with my arm.
I had two
light switches:
overhead
and a strobe.
I fall
asleep
mid-air.
Later that night . . .
feel a foreign weight
pressed against me.
Tickles
my leg.
I shift
my weight
it moves again.
My worst
nightmare.
Snake
in bed
with me.
Grab it
by its neck
squeeze it tight
and bang its head
against the headboard.
Open my eyes to a
flashing series of stills:
Snake’s mouth
fanged open.
Brown body
dangling.
Hand
gripping
neck.
It stops
fighting back,
I collapse
exhausted/thankful.
Close
my eyes
and feel
it move
again.
Jump/grab
its neck
and fling it
across the room.
Snake springs
instantly back
onto the bed.
“This fucker
is fast,” I think.
I grab its neck
jump out of bed
smash its head
against the wall.
I squeeze it tight
and give one
devasting knock.
Knuckles swipe
the light switch.
Look down and see
my right hand
gripping my left wrist.
III.
Running
through
grass
at the banks
of a river.
Snakes leap
like rabbits
crossing high
in front of me
zoom past
like arrows
I am not scared.
Like running
with horses/wolves . . .
I dream this
while living
in Paris.
IV.
In four years
I will walk to the banks
of the Hudson.
“Wasn’t this in
The Warriors?”
I will think
descending
the metal steps.
I will imagine
a small boat
carved from tree
perched beside
the rocks.
One bird will blossom
into a flock—flecks of
turquoise in their wings.
Small man in reddish
paint climbs out of boat
walks through me.
I turn/see
the city
is a forest.
This only
lasts a second
and then
I remember
the dream.
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