"A Season of Dreams" by Erin Leso Excerpt
AQUA ON STRINGS
We’re holding on by traction
or cohesion. Whichever sticks.
Time
slips like a klutz on the ice.
Leaves
lose contact with their tree trunks.
The skin on drums
go from white to cloudy grey.
A bookstore
becomes another pharmacy.
Long division
becomes too much for a smartphone.
An ocean’s high tide
washes over sandcastles made by kids on the beach.
But it’s never been too high for us.
We’ve had our boiling points
and points we were so lost we became frozen.
Father Time and money have given us surface tension.
It becomes too much
the area around us has minimized.
But we eventually cool down.
They’ve also given us prototypes
so we can add properties and methods to our relationship
so we can grow
as we go with the flow
and hang tight to the strings
that pull us into the future.
Crossing the Ghostlight
Entre
Oh! You late night sinners
Sweet dreams
to ushers and the janitors
Strike up
all the after-hours applause
With a flick of the switch,
I resurrect the underground spirits
and with one glance towards the ceiling
full of clouds and angels,
I bring new air
to the lungs of statues.
Although my luminous glow
within an LED bulb
is locked in
by metallic wires,
without me,
the last foolish soul
to leave this theater
could become as unconscious
as the names of people
on the dedication plaques
dating back decades.
Some are far too long gone,
and others still dress
as fancy as ever.
A bunch of familiar faces
walk, fly, run,
(what have you)
in from the lobby
as a mini symphony performs “Midnight, the Stars, and You”
at the beginning of every hour.
Once in a while,
I’ll peak in the wings
to find infamous understudy
who always ended up playing
a horse’s ass,
Rogue Snow,
seeking his revenge
as he has since 1939.
He’s too fast from me to catch
as he scurries through
the dressing rooms like a rat.
He yanks the brightly colored feathers
from the flamboyant costumes
and replaces them
with those of a peacock.
He write the number 13
all over the doors,
and with leftover lipstick,
he dare forms the two dreaded words
in this business
“Good luck!”
on the mirrors.
Even if I could break free
from these bars,
he’s an exaggerated shadow
that one shouldn’t mess with.
But come the next human
who shuts me down,
and the guests have left me,
this may all be a dream.
Or is it?
There’s only one way to find out.
Those who are brave
and believe in the bizarre
and wish to experience the madness or magic
(call it what you may)
are welcome
to join us
as I rattle this theater
with my supernatural ways.
IN YOUR FEVER DREAM (part 1)
“Rest easy, darling
and let my kisses
soothe the heatwave in your mind.”
(You’ve already consumed
the frozen particles from the ice packs
to create a frosted sculpture of me
in your stone cold heart.)
“Oh, honey! You know, I’ll be right back.
I always am.
I’m just gonna grab the Benadryl
so you can sleep soundly.”
(While my conscience bangs drums
in the empty arena that is my brain.)
“Baby, let me get that for you.
You work your ass off miles away from home.
You deserve some shut eye.”
(As I patch
the leaking holes in the bathroom ceiling
and screw the loose refrigerator door
tightly closed
to restrict the chill
from entering my soul.)
IN YOUR FEVER DREAM (part 2)
Sunday morning in the park.
The glorious scent of freshly cut grass
breaks the winter’s spell.
A charming and heavy figure in a navy-blue overcoat
creeps around the sidewalk
whistling the beginning of Billy Joel’s “The Stranger”.
The clock at City Hall strikes noon
and the ringing rattles louder
than the tearing of velcro.
He flashes you a glance like a camera
as he removes his sunglasses
and winks at you and runs
with your shoes.
You chase the shadow
who eventually takes off layers and exposes himself
as a rat
standing picturesque
on top of a statue inside a water fountain.
He dangles your fancy black leather boots like a salesman
and you attempt to climb up,
until the pennies in the pond expand to stepping stones
you foolishly believe will catch you.
Your leg slips off the rock’s edge
right after the dirty old mouse calls your name
in that sexy tone I used to give you in our bedroom.
You gaze up
as high as your body temperature
while your skeleton sinks
as fast as the keys you presented me
to manipulate your sweet fever dreams
as you transformed me into your colorful house maid
without knowing
I have some traps
of my own.
DRESSING UP A RAT
Let’s try something new.
You remember dressing up
and speaking for Barbie and American Girl Dolls, right?
Well, let’s decorate a living doll
like me.
Take your pick. Do you want beefy brown or spunky black?
Don’t worry, you can give me a red dress with ruffles if I’m a doe.
You can also give me a charming blue tuxedo,
because what snaps more perfectly than a suit and a buck?
Would you make me a trusty sidekick, if I’m a male
to complete your fairy tale of rumbles to bundles?
Would you fashion me after a superhero
with tights or a bright blue spandex leotard?
Well, you would have to squish my tail to my body first,
because who wants a disturbing organ dangling like a dead flower petal
in front of a grand cape?
But at least you can throw me across the room like a piece of trash
or control me with your fist around my heart as you scurry
to give me the thrill of licking the stars.
Of course, if I’m an unmated female,
you’d have to give me cheetah patterned high heels
which all the stray cats find alluring with the filthy black fur.
Don’t worry, you can always bathe me
and conceal my scars from squeezing out of cracks
just to find some comfort.
Why not?
I’m only a rodent
that carries my own diseases
as secretly
as a shiny wire will eventually end my life
if I ever attempt
to escape.