February Moon
by zach walters
the bent frames of rusted cars in the driveway tonight are dreaming of an icicle moon the dog dreams of a dead squirrel in the snow, the girl dreams she meets herself as an old woman sitting in the shadows cast on the wall from the fireplace I dream that I’m out walking and I fall into a frozen lake. the water rushes so blue and cold I thrash my legs as it swallows me whole. sometimes I can go on worrying that I might get worried if I keep on worrying like this: this is not the dream I wish to have. Linda, in support group on sunday says “what if I just go crazy and attack my husband with a hammer?” gee, that stuff seems to catch on like wildfire the parking lot is slick with black ice. I return home to my bedroom surrounded by space heaters churning late into the night. a picture on the fridge from fourth grade shows me fighting goblins with a battle-axe this classic archetype of good versus evil makes people step off chairs with belts trying to win their own civil wars that’s not the dream I wish to have I’m not scared of winter, I say looking upward at the moon my dog runs towards the porchlight with something caught between his teeth
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