Dali Paints Me Dreaming

Before the lid in my head
slid open, secrets screaming
into my dreams and upsetting
my tidy Waterhouse world,
I thought of myself as a 'nice',
if somewhat eccentric,
middle-aged woman.

I sang in the church choir,
hurling my words toward
that Being who would
surely save me someday
(from what, I knew not).

I respected my superiors,
avoided cracks on the sidewalk,
still cleaned my plate for
starving children in China.

Men made me nervous,
always wanting to touch,
as payment rendered
for dinner or a night on the town.

I never did marry.

Now dreams wake me nightly
and I pace, hair wild
like a harlot,
breasts swinging loose.

Extra prayer meetings don't help
nor do charitable donations.

Shadowy images
fly past like movies;
old hands on bare buttocks,
legs thrust apart
blood on teddy bear sheets

--then grandfather
incarnates, a ghostly
black vulture, clawing
my shoulders, hissing
his threats, and snuffing
my memories all over again,
with one heartstopping
oh so familiar wing beat.

Pris Campbell
©2003

Art: Ballerine en tete de Mort by Dali

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