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He is a fetal flower curled against my side, a prisoner of Prozac his mouth Sticks as he talks about the war And tells me about the dream That sponges him with sweat Each night, a dream that takes him When I am stone against his side Spinning backward like unwinding Ribbon to twenty years before we met To the last time he was a boy Taking awkward twilight infant steps On monkey mountain Each night has become for him A reunion with the thin wire, The shiny white bones melting In the jungle sun Each night, he remembers how the screeching quiet swelled To take the boy And leave the man Who mews against my breast And grabs my hand To flatten down the jungle When it rises in the dark Slipstream |