Your dream was this:

you went through a scan

that glowed purple and blue

then (in the daylight hours)

a storm blew through

and took out all your power.

Ripped up by the roots,

tingling with pain

exposed

to the swirl of blue air

it took us all out,

and left wires coiled along the roadside.

We tripped on open suitcases

full of a warmer climate

beach thongs and muumuus

we came back to the dark

the outage map lit up red,

and then there was no map.

The road was a toppled,

clear-cut forest,

a suede green carpet

until chainsaws ripped through

thick logs at the road edge

and we could come out.

But you stayed home

tended the fire

and carried candles to the closet

where you dressed all in red

dirt caked on your face,

clothes mounded in corners.

This is the lesson:

you’re living too much

in your head,

in your purple

lumped throat

when your strength is below.

Shape a heart with your fingers

below your navel

pull the red roots down

out of the air

and plunge them back into the soil

bury them, bury them

so you can stand up

shake the dirt off

and face the sky.

Previously published by Sheila-Na-Gig online, Volume 4.2, Winter 2019.