I remember back in college reading “stream of consciousness” writing. My professor had us open to the end of James Joyce’s novel “Ulysses”, in particular, the thoughts of the prostitute as she was drifting off to sleep. Sentences ran together, one thought making a giant leap to another topic altogether. I was greatly impressed by the creativity of Joyce, and the way he was able to capture in words, that which many of us experience, especially at night. This poem is, in essence, composed in my own version of a stream of consciousness, as experienced in one night’s sleep. I fall asleep, awaken, glance at the time projected on the ceiling, fall asleep again, only to waken, and then fall asleep again throughout the night. The dreams are accurate (I’m sure Jung would have a field day. The dog’s injuries and symbolic of my own injuries and time in the ER? Religious services in a converted theater. Is that which we celebrate in religious services real, or is it just an elaborate play with fancy costumes? I am not too sure why my deceased brother showed up, but then, his cremains still remain in my bedroom, as I await the ability to walk again and have them buried on my sister’s grave. And, so on.). Here is the poem
I awaken.
Another night filled
with dreams. My
pet dog, Belle,
set upon by several
mastiffs, I picking up
her torn, limp body
in my arms and enter
the E.R. of the local
hospital, where her
wounds are stitched
up as I record it all
on my cell phone,
I awaken,
another dream, the
theater on Main Street
transformed into a
church, my brother
haunting the space,
the front row, stage right
his place, as I assist at
Mass, ducking out after
Communion to the
coffee shop next door,
sipping a sixteen ounce,
skim, chocolate latte,
no whip cream, Patty,
the proprietor smiling
at me … the one
pleasant part of
this long night of dreaming.
I awaken.
Squinting at the time
projected in red numerals
on the ceiling, 8:44 am,
eight hours have passed
since I settled in bed
for the night. My mind
goes back to the nightmare
of 2011, remembering
the long nights I spent
in bed. From 9:30 pm,
when you left for work,
to 8 am as you entered
our bedroom. Turning,
bandage changing, another
round of antibiotics, a
seemingless cycle of
no respite for either of us,
hopping from bed to commode,
then from commode
to my chair, a journey
made numerous times daily.
I turn seeing your
sleeping form next to me.
You open your eyes,
gazing at me and repeat
the words that saved me
many years ago. “This
will pass. You will heal.”
I swing my feet over
the side of the bed.
A one, two, three and
up on my right leg,
grasping the awaiting
walker with both hands,
the beginning of
another day.
As I begin to hop to
the bathroom, I think,
“Here I go. Another day.
Five, or is it,
Seven weeks to go?”
(c) 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
