Nightmare Chronicles

There was always a maze,
a door she knew.

Solitary windows that
Anne peered through.

Walls with gaping holes,
floors with no strength.

Sweat that gathered on her neck
for Satan to wipe away.

They were always amazing, she said.
Damn crazy, he said.

But his were of repeated things—
angels lined up while he bit each wing.

Destructive things.
big black trombones.

His mother in hysterics,
him locked outside.

Southern sun blazing,
eastern promises nothing at all,
the western lullaby in her tongue.

Trying to reach her on the phone only
to hear her breathing with the other one—

He could here that rustling,
her faithful theme music weak,
that old racist swing she loved.

Repeated things, he said.
Sweet things, she said.

He wiped the sweat from her neck,
Letting Satan stand and watch,
perverted nightmare theology,

angels still waiting their turns,
watching too, but she never let him
in and the show fell through.

He smoked away, he and his
father in their man like ways.

Flipping off the economy,
cupping themselves to democracy.

Confessing, digressing, until
his eyes were again wet.

He wondered how he could forget
that he couldn’t bring him back with Newport cigarettes.

He told her this.
They needed one another.

They slept, and he had another nightmare.
She dreamt of a mother.