A Dream of Dead Dogs Lying
Open-Mouthed by the Road

Terri Brown-Davidson

Don’t resist, my husband says, Mr. Psychiatrist,
ever the eminent Freudian lacking only a sound practice.
At three a.m. dreams blur into a gray shadow-country
I can’t run from on stumps.
It’s a landscape of images, of dog-heads with eyes burned out
into blackening holes, of flanks splitting open
to an ecstasy of brightening organs
drying out in sun so scalding even asleep I can’t contemplate it.
Dreams aren’t fascinating, the Freudians say, except as doors
to the unexplored psyche. But, sleep-sodden, still I wonder,
Why does age bring flashes of decay, tiny hazed snapshots
of organs going numb, of skin that wraps them like grocery sacks,
loose-fitting and brown? Two worlds I live in now. The dailiness
of Super Saver and searingly white lighting bathing Campbell’s soupcans
The nightmares of violation. Of surgery and sharpening knives.

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