Tonight's Poet Corner: My Dreams
My Dreams
by Belinda Roddie
My dreams are written by a six-year-old.
Her stream of consciousness binds me like
a book with crayon scribbled across its spine.
She builds a world with corners, but then the
edges are blurred by the stub of a pencil's
eraser, and I can't tell if she will keep me
between the lines or lead me entirely off the page.
We've greeted a pink centaur on a field of green, and
its coat matches the sunset above our heads. We've
wandered through a desert twice by now, and the
rocks there have been pretty neat. We've tried to buy
breakfast from the grocery store, and when they don't
have what we want, we maneuver to the doughnut
store, but despite the deep fried goodness, they don't
have what we want, either, so why bother with it?
It's been fun to navigate the inane parts with the
fantasies, all drawn on an axis in my mind. I've always
thought of the world in numbers and calculations, in
equations and solutions. But when I'm asleep, that
little precocious and curious first grader takes over
the restless gray matter and builds a show in my brain.
Whether or not the story is mundane or nonsensical,
full of dragons or dinners with extra ketchup, it
doesn't matter; it's still a story she wants to write,
and I have to admit, she writes it well.
by Belinda Roddie
My dreams are written by a six-year-old.
Her stream of consciousness binds me like
a book with crayon scribbled across its spine.
She builds a world with corners, but then the
edges are blurred by the stub of a pencil's
eraser, and I can't tell if she will keep me
between the lines or lead me entirely off the page.
We've greeted a pink centaur on a field of green, and
its coat matches the sunset above our heads. We've
wandered through a desert twice by now, and the
rocks there have been pretty neat. We've tried to buy
breakfast from the grocery store, and when they don't
have what we want, we maneuver to the doughnut
store, but despite the deep fried goodness, they don't
have what we want, either, so why bother with it?
It's been fun to navigate the inane parts with the
fantasies, all drawn on an axis in my mind. I've always
thought of the world in numbers and calculations, in
equations and solutions. But when I'm asleep, that
little precocious and curious first grader takes over
the restless gray matter and builds a show in my brain.
Whether or not the story is mundane or nonsensical,
full of dragons or dinners with extra ketchup, it
doesn't matter; it's still a story she wants to write,
and I have to admit, she writes it well.
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