In a Dream
You wake up in the field behind the house.
Someone has anointed you with fire.
Your nightgown rimmed in ash as you
struggle to your knees, genuflecting.
You float above the earth, light snow
haloing your blonde hair which
someone has cut with scissors in a bowl-shape,
your face absented of every color.
You are staring toward the back of the house.
The door is ajar but blowing in the wind.
Someone is standing inside the door, hidden.
You can hear someone calling your name.
You raise your arms in a sign of a cross
revealing the razor cuts along both wrists.
On the wind you hear a voice, a song,
something like a sigh, a benediction.
You paint your face with charcoal, extending
your hands to the heavens, then eyes turn
to the shadow, someone drawing you back,
ghosting on a string toward the back door.
You emit fire from your fingertips, you burn
electric, someone staggers from the inferno
of your house, clutching a whisky bottle,
a kitchen knife cleaving his paunchy gut.
You wake up in the field behind the house.
Someone has anointed you with fire,
your nightgown rimmed in ash as you
struggle to your knees, resurrecting.

Taking to Bed
You lie sunken in your bed, hunkered
and hog-tied, sound of hobnails
on front porch, a knock on the screen door:
memory licking its bones clean,
desire wrapping itself in velveteen.
The wormhole opens in a minor key.
He brings you the gift of silence,
offers hope like a reincarnation,
sits uncomfortable, out of joint, on the sofa.
You offer, in return, a glass of herbal tea.
You make small talk, your voice scratching.
At the appropriate time you rise as one,
approach timid as a first date, until
you are conscious of his smell, like ozone
before a spring rain or a lightning strike.
The visitor removes his tie, accentuating
the length of his beard. His hand touches
your shoulder like an evangelical minister
offering baptism to a new convert. You taste
the chrism from his sweating fingers.
You invite him into your bed, the tall body
sliding under the covers; you feel his warmth
as the heat of an unfiltered sun; you sense
a new beginning, desire entering with its
velveteen tail, the wormhole closing.

Yesterday
the word came down –
prepare your mind –
oh what a scramble
rummaging wildly through
everything to find
items for my flight,
my ultimate ramble.
I select my cell, my gray lap top,
our wedding day picture –
the voice
on the intercom had said
in a tone of stricture
today’s sentence, by the way
(you have no choice),
is effective immediately,
departure at 0900 tomorrow,
no exceptions – you cried twice –
to die you only have
to release yourself from sorrow,
from fear of dying,
perhaps good advice,
but speaking from
my personal yellow streak,
I will fight, to revoke,
nail and tooth, in truth,
this arbitrary, bleak
banishment,
this severing stroke.
My conviction, internment papers,
my possible execution date –
at this thought I stand aghast
but by 0859, I realize
it’s getting late –
my mac is dead,
my phone has rung its last.

Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. He has written eight books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. Since 2019, he has had more than 50 poems selected by over twenty different publications. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry.
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