Barbara Daniels

Darkness, near sleep.
A Ferris wheel swings
toward me, sink
full of dishes, splinters
of glass. I show the scar
on my breast to a man
in the neighborhood.
I slice my arm, limp
strips on a Nile blue plate.
A severed head
rides the gold river. I'd like
to help,
I call. Calmly,
the small mouth answers
You can't. When I wake
I don't want to help
anyone. I share
the restless euphoria
striking a line at the bakery.
We smell new bread,
brown, rounded,
as it is lifted from ovens.
Last night I dreamed
a wheeled chair rolled
in the dark next door,
touring the shadows,
making a savage noise.

Photo by Elsa García