Dream Stream

Dream Stream

I remember vaguely hearing on NPR:
“Training maneuvers in January over the Green Mountains”;
and have heard them, high and distant, deep in the night.
But last night I swam up fast out of sleep at the roar
of jets riding the edge of the sound barrier,
ripping holes in the rain drenched thaw clouds.
I wondered what the shapes were, knowing the F-4's and F-111's
of my husband's war and the B-17's of my father's war--the
silhouettes of them as distinct in my brain as heron, hawk, Corbie.
My heart is clicking and swishing faster, rising into my throat,
the red tide of it pounds behind my eyes—I can feel
the vibration in the rough hemlock framing of my house
and in the long bones of my body.
When I sink back into dreaming
there is the pupil point of a gun pointed at my head.
(I who cringe at the pointing of a finger,
with all of its subtle implications and intent.)
In the dream my first thought is:
"Oh, it's one of ours"--but my second thought;
hand-cuffed to the first:
"But a predator doesn't take sides."