A Simulated World
by Mary Erickson
Thursday, September 11, 2003
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This poem was written in response to a dream
At that shadowy time when
ordinary objects seem other things –
a gnarled branch beside a window,
a finger pointed accusingly;
a dresser with open drawers,
a staircase to a simulated world.
I stand at the apex, a hesitant traveler.
Here, where yesterday’s people
convene, things are out of sequence.
My sister has a reconstituted body
and is wearing her charred red dress.
Sweeter now, she beckons me,
asks whose paying her mortgage.
Through the mist my son’s face
comes into focus, clearer than in life.
I study the effects of adolescent acne,
acting as though they matter.
Questions like, “Who will love him?”
draw me deeper downward.
I see my other son, sixteen again,
with rosy cheeks and Hippie hair,
hand him twenty dollars
in counterfeit bills.
He wants to light a candle in
memory of his brother.
The evening picks up momentum,
carries me in search of lost luggage.
I tumble to the underworld.
Here fresh wardrobes are furnished,
new mates met, and only bicycles
permitted on narrow roads.
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|Reviewed by Rodd Jokre
|I agree, nicely writen verse... I hope for more... Thanks, Rodd|
|Reviewed by Jay Squires
I am stunned. Adding anything would be taking away. Your poem leaves me absolutely --I must say it again-- STUNNED!
|Reviewed by ya mama (Reader)
|nice poem. well crafted|