A Dream I Didn't Have - Stephanie Johnson

dream, of snow-capped roofs and crisp, white
ground – “silence”, i answer starchly,
when pressed, “and so on, and so forth: quiet,
that is what i seek” – i step,
and a thousand apples crunch under the fabric
of my boots, worn thin by the climb of
my own, personal everest -- i bite down,
and the world bites back

my feet tangle, and i trip out onto
the surface – (“but what is the lake
made of?” the little girl asks, impatience
etched on her every feature – sweetness,
the twist of her mouth seems to say, is
for those without places to go) –
it is just like riding a bike, they say,
all laughing eyes and slanted words, but time
and time again i fall, and their hands
remain by their sides, unable (or unwilling)
to assist

(this is your debt, the geese shriek, snapping
and biting at each other’s wings as they
fly overhead – “it is your blood we should be
spilling,” they mutter, merciless in their
judgment, “and your feathers that we should
tear from your spine.”

irrelevant, i reason: they cannot catch me
if i never try to fly.

i walk on.)

the ice cracks and pops, splinters like
the finest spider web, and even still it is
naught but the faintest echo of my splintered
limbs: shredded beyond repair, my sinew sings
of loves and lives i will never bleed for.

the world is dead, here.

gasping, i surface; choking, i submerge:
under the water, i am ageless, but my bones
are so old, and i can only stay breathless
for so long

[“the break is clean,” they promise,
all smiles; “we can set the bone now, if
you’d like” – “no,” he pants, “no, no –
i’m not quite done hurting, yet.”]