July 6-7: Poem from "Kyrie," Good and Bad Dreams, Weird Writers

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Nothing fluttered, or sighed against her spine,
or coiled, recoiled in a fitful sleep,
fist in a sack, but her breasts knew
what her body made, and in her mind
she saw two legs, two arms, two plates of bone
where the damp tulle wings had been.  Whatever it was,
she bled it out.

More snow fell,
into the deep ravine, the lesser gullies.
The doctor patted her arm:  she was young, strong,
soon there would be another.  But there wasn't:
just the one dream, the one scar.

_____________________

Some dreams are wonderful, things you never want to wake from.  Other dreams, things you want to leave crumpled in the sheets at the bottom of the bed, to be shook out in morning light.

Since the pandemic began, most people have been dreaming about the time when everything will return to "normal," however that might be defined.  For most, it's about going to a restaurant or movie with friends.  For kids, it may be returning to school, being able to see their friends on something other than computer screens.  For healthcare workers, reporting for work without having to pass through checkpoints that resemble border crossings from West to East Berlin during the Cold War.

I have learned that dreams aren't inherently good or bad.  A bad dream for me might entail waking up in a house completely devoid of people--no wife or kids or dog.  Finding myself completely and utterly alone.  For other people, that particular scenario might be a dream come true.  Space to relax and enjoy some "me" time.  Read a good book without interruption.  Watch a movie on Netflix that nobody else wants to watch.

It really depends on how you define not the dream, but the terms "good" and "bad."  Now, most people would define this pandemic as "bad."  Certainly, there is a whole lot of shitty going 'round.  Unemployment.  Illness.  Broken lives and relationships.  Political turmoil.  Racial unrest.  Of course, all these things existed before Covid-19 was even a glimmer in a meat market.  It's just that the magnifying glass of this time has intensified everything--like sunlight on an ant's back.  A bad dream.

Yet, there have been some strange blessings delivered by the pandemic, as well.  Time has sort of ground to a halt.  Days and nights lengthen out.  Right now, I'm sitting on the couch next to my daughter, watching a movie on Hulu.  A biopic on the writer Shirley Jackson starring Elizabeth Moss.  Shirley.  If it weren't for the virus, my daughter would probably be getting ready for work tomorrow morning, doing her nightly ablutions before bed.

Instead, I'm able to have moments like this.  Shared moments.  With people I love.  And these last few months have been full of them.  Full of good dreams.

That is what this pandemic has done.  Redefined the dreams of the world.  Given us the ability to find the good in all the bad.  Given me this night with my daughter, who actually enjoys spending time with her weird poet father, watching weird movies about weird writers.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.