Cruel Dreams

It must have been my sheets and blankets
twisting me up
into the diameter of the bomb –

for I just fell to earth without landing,
without shattering into
stratospheric dust

maybe it’s a parachute
or its the cushion of tendon
they taught me to tear; the malleable joints
in fowl carcasses I wrenched
to render each piece separate

but no, its all the same

I could fly by easily enough
without the cruelty of dreams
I could scale the wall and go on and on
toehold by toehold and slightly bleeding fingers

I could scrape, and crawl and lose and gain
capillaries, muscle, arteries and fat
like a twisted ancient magician
shape-shifting into something more..
or less

and when I reached the top they'd cheer
throw me a celebration of achievement
complete with medals
and trophies made of gold
that read:

I lived through this

and all the blood on the cliff face
would be worth it

if dreams weren't there to
show a completely different version
of how things might have been.