The room smells of stagnant water
that licks my trembling knees.
A door emits the only light,
moonbeams that streak through
the dried blood on the
I stand with a strange woman.
A wife I have never seen before.
To me she hands a strange baby.
A son I have never met before.
Without a word, I take an old saw,
scarred by years of service,
and slowly, methodically,
I cut the newborn flesh
in a twisted Biblical scene.
I don’t stop, I don’t hesitate,
not even when the woman’s
dead fingers splash in the water
next to the bleeding— I wake up.
I don’t scream, my pillow is not wet
from fright sweat. I sit up.
I am scared
I am scared— not of the images,
not of the horror chamber I’ve
just visited. I am scared that I
was not scared.
I was never scared.
The living dying on my bare fingers,
and I never flinched, never looked away.
Where are the hollers of the nightmare?
Where is the restlessness of the dream?
What am I capable of?
Why can’t I feel?
I fall back asleep, dreaming
of sand, the bones of dead
gods and Fiddler’s Green.