scorpio dream: tarantella

in the dream i dance the tarantella
with a red and black thin-legged monster.
i am protecting a young cross-eyed girl
from the dream spider's scorpion whiptail.

she is screaming and scared, it's on her head
in invisible, quick, lethal gestures.
it comes after me, mad now, tail poised up
only thing not moving, graceful arrow

of death. i begin to skittle skattle
as if quicker than death: i'm not. in greece
they danced to sweat out poison, a rite
of exorcism for the convulsions of the bite.

now in italy a dance entrances:
whether bit or not, we become spider.
but in the dream, i am not fast enough
(and that's saying a lot).

is being a workaholic like dancing
tarantella 24/7? i wake
to the poison of this day, brightly
and innocently, calm light proclaiming all

is well, dream's over, whether it is or not.

Where does that hallway lead?

The architecture of my dreams: hallways.
Red velvet or broad as betting parlors,
the spaces signal transition—always—
and sometimes I come to a subtle door
that opens into a dark and small maze.

It’s familiar but not particular.
I begin squeezing down the labyrinth.
It is as wide as I am. Yellow earth.
Unease rises. I crouch. Ahead, the depth.
I know the secret—I have all my days!

I backtrack from the anonymous earth,
shut the basement door, return to the hall.
Hors d’oeuvres. The opera. No way to assert
what was...where I went. Must wake to recall
the dark, the door, the secret I forget.

Through that grave, I wonder if there’s a caul.
I think through the nothing there is the all.

This area may contain assassins

You sauntered up, all legs, and calmly said,
“Just dance,” so I held you close,
head high, hips sly, tossing off bon mots
while keeping your sleek body
between me and that goon with the gun.

I ignored the nuns in the casino,
letting you sit in my lap for luck and black jack,
snapping your garter with each new card,
a surreptitious little superstition
that made you smirk
but quickly attracted the eye in the sky.

“Slide the winnings in a suitcase and fetch my car,”
I told the cage, flipping the dealer six chips as a tip
while surveillance cameras swiveled
to see the seams on your stockings
strut out to the street.

It’s remarkable anyone could drive
after all that cognac and champagne,
yet such a relief to know
you’d never slip something in my drink,
except maybe an organic lychee.

I went straight back to the cave,
not bothering to blindfold you
or take fake turns or
even worry about a tail.

Sure, they chewed me out the next day —
but I knew what I was doing.

The boys down in the motor pool
keep filling in the bullet holes and banging out the dents.

The lab has scrubbed the interior so many times,
our history could be told in a series of cigar stubs
and strands of hair in tiny, labeled plastic bags.
They even installed that baby ejector seat in back.

It’s been a long road,
with our share of ugly scenes, bad dialogue,
and more than a few continuity errors,
yet you’re still there
when I have to drop the top and hit the gas.

And before I even ask,
you’re elegantly passing me the pistol from the glove box.

You freshen your lipstick. I talk to my watch,
then we exchange familiar grins.
It’s going to be fine, baby.

It’s going to be just fine.

Dream While Driving

I fell asleep again today, this time while driving.
I dreamed I was awake, and driving
on the very same freeway
on the very same day
and every driver in every other car
knew me and waved as they passed.
Some honked their horns and smiled.
Small children pressed their faces against the windows
and gestured wildly.
It felt good to be known and recognized.
Everyone drove safely,
and gave me lots of room.
I did not recognize a single man, woman, or child
though they seemed to know me very well.
I wondered - had I known them in some other life?

A taxi driver wearing a turban
rolled down his window
and motioned for me to exit.
I pulled off at the next freeway offramp.
I found a place to pull over beside
a field of golden barley.
I waited for him to come to my window.
It took a while, for he had but one leg
and he had to walk with crutches.
"Do you remember me?" he exclaimed,
smiling broadly but with tears in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember you at all."
"I am Mansi, your son in law," he said.
"I married your daughter."
"I don't have a daughter," I said.
"Your daughter Gloria, with the beautiful voice."
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember a thing."
"It's okay," he said. "Remembering
isn't everything."
He embraced me then and I woke up.

I was still driving, but on an unfamiliar highway
that seemed to stretch on forever
between foggy rice fields
without another car or farmhouse in sight
and no way to remember
from where I had come from
or where I was going.

This Week's Prompt: Dream Poem

O Poets of Imunuri, at this time of thin veil between worlds, take your inspiration from one of these ideas: 

Write about a dream, as if in a dream, or through the image of a recent dream. 

Write of a nightmare or an image of sanctuary. 

Or write the poem as a dream interpretation, as if you are each of the characters in a dream. 

Loosen your edges, defy gravity, roll between realities, as dreams do. 

Tag with "poem, dream"