coughing up feathers...



i.

Last night,

(in a dream
and with my permission)

you cut me open...

And from out of me poured
 all the world's oceans.

Last night,
you cut me open...

And from out of me slipped
 a silver crescent moon.

Last night,
you cut me open...

And from out of me crawled
 a giant black snake.

Last night,
you cut me open...

And from out of me fluttered
 ten thousand tiny red & blue butterflies.

Last night,
you cut me open...

And from out of me fell
 every single star in the Universe.

Waist deep in sea-water,
I watched as the snake
writhed & weaved 
& basked
in the salt-liquid & stars.

They stuck to its scales,
glistening
in the gentle light
of the crescent moon.

And the butterflies,
they all flew skyward,
blended quickly into
a giddy, heady blur of purple.

Some of the
lesser fortunate ones
got stuck
in tiny holes
where stars once were.

And,
as usual for me in a dream...

I had perfect vision.


ii.

Since that dream,
colours and shapes have
changed a little

in my slightly expanded universe.

Some familiar faces & names too.

And I've been trying of late
to speak your name,
but

every
single
time
I try:

I just seem to
 cough up feathers!!

There's some black ones in there
(from a crow, I think,
or maybe a magpie?).

And some orange/yellow ones too,
perhaps from a canary?

There's even a couple of
blue butterfly wings hiding in there
amongst the feathers.

I was thinking of scooping them all up,
and making something useful
out of them...

I thought I could
sew or weave them all together

into a blanket
or a parachute
or maybe even a big pair of wings?

But
because I am now awake,
and no longer dreaming

my sight's not the best.

And I have
way too much
male pride & stubborness
to admit...

Even to you - especially to you!!

That I might
need
a little help

threading the needle.

So, instead,
I'll just keep trying
to say your name
a little bit longer.

And coughing up
 these beautiful (but useless) feathers...

(epilogue):

It has been a while now.
A helpful (yet unhelpful) friend
has suggested

that if these symptons persist,
I really ought to see a doctor.

Or, at the very least,
in a shallow attempt to make some money
from this strange ailment,

that I should consider
opening a mattress & pillow factory.



(c) Brent M Harpur, 2013.


"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul /
 and sings the tunes without the words / and never stops at all."
 (Emily Dickinson)

"Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time." (Jean Paul)

"Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers or wings,
 it is, for that reason, to be of no account?" (Jean Paul)