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a time to rest

Mary Shelley dreamt the death of her husband, Percy the poet. His face slipping gentle into the gloom of an ocean swell. He died at sea in her waking life, before the next full moon.

The same moon that waned and re-fleshed a thousand and one times before my dream of a new child and a search for a blanket and the way that she passed away in my arms in 30 seconds, bloated, rotted and blew into dust, before my eyes. And the earthquake that followed woke me to a pair of alarmed Doctor's eyes hovering careful over my foreign bedside whispering words I could not distinguish but knew the message of.

Your one day old soul is in trouble. We told you a day and then home for her but we lied.

You thought perhaps this would be the end and a time to rest but in fact it is the beginning. Hold on.

1:19 p.m. - 2006-09-07
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