Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



David Dreamed I Was Sick

David dreamed I was sick.
There was a deep lake and we couldn’t
dip our lines in, my arms
too weak for casting.
Something about the tightness
in my left breast; the red center,
in real life, wept.
In real life, I won’t let my son
fly in a plane.
They stop children now. They cuff
them, make them wait in rooms
separate from their mothers.
Wait to be told they are wrong,
and wait to return.
I need another word for a girl,
my son’s age, six, against an airport
wall, behind glass, bored-looking agent,
and the girl in pigtails, Velcroed shoes,
hands behind her small back
bound in plastic ties.
God, the Velcro on her shoes.
There are not enough emotions,
not enough ways, not enough words
for the love I have been given, the safety, the vow:
all will be well, all will be well, all will be well.
In the night if I turn I am not alone.
In the day I am comforted by a bowl of apples,
white dot of sugar.
David dreamed I was sick.
In the dream he planted dahlias to help me get well.
In real life, he planted hostas, alpine betony
to make me feel welcome, to make a home for me.
I need another word for sorry, child.
I need another word, one word, for: I want you to know this love, such love,
breaking the earth, the roots trembling in our hands


Alison Stine’s most recent book of poetry is Wait (University of Wisconsin Press), and her most recent book of fiction is a novella, The Protectors (Little A). She lives with her son in the Appalachian foothills.


illustration:  anna_croc01

illustration: anna_croc01