6.16 / December 2011

Dream Without Hands

listen to this poem

I’m walking, half-waking on my way home,
I’m reaching out my hands before my face
Noticing how soft the skin between my
Fingers and the patterns in my own hands.
It glows like amber. It scours my neck.
The grate in the fire, a net for scorched limbs.
This flame grows on its own just under my hands.
Do you know how fire burns my arms tonight?
Last night when I touched the breath from your throat
I felt the ash and honey and now
I’m in stockings on my knees
I’m in the dark looking long into the fire.
Do you want the ashes from where my wrists were?
I keep them in a teacup by your bed.


I am currently an MFA candidate at Western Michigan University, where I teach Composition and Children's Literature. I am also the Poetry Editor forThird Coast Magazine. My work is forthcoming in Weave Magazine and Prism Review.
6.16 / December 2011

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