Only through the upside-down and
backwards book the feeling emerged,
turned into a dog, and ran off.
So like a hill the feeling–climbed upon, grassy,
view of clouds and buses parked in stalls
like horses, sleeping with the children’s cries
in their bright bellies. Our indigestion is this:
our bad dreams are this: the ragged
too-happy children, the hungry, wild children.
I don’t want to let your particulars go,
my made-up, ancient, unrequited
story. Tell yourself to me.
Talk until I wake.
— Emily Skoler
This article appears in Aug 27 – Sep 2, 2003.
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