I went to bed early, set on dreaming my mother in her long, fuzzy blue bathrobe, sitting in her rocking chair.  To apologize for dreaming her in the altogether, in a tree.

I couldn’t sleep.

Not while this Ulaneak Creek cabin kept telling me to go home, calling me “Sourdough.”  “Sourdough go home.  Sourdough go.”

When I finally drifted off, the cabin stole my dreams.  When I woke up, the walls were damp inside.  And the door handle was singed.


4 thoughts on “THOMAS’ DREAM JOURNAL, SEPTEMBER 9, 2012

  1. Very interesting play with wetness and burnt-ness you have going so far in these poems! It feels true to the wilderness theme. I also like the sounds of the sourdough line. Kind of out of nowhere, but works perhaps because of that.

    • Thanks so much, Willa — the articles about Thomas were all about water and fire. Glad that sounds true. And yeah, sourdough. Any white person not from Alaska is a sourdough 😉

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