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Ann Drysdale

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The Dream Catchers

Hospital; midnight

 

Joseph lies beside Pharaoh’s bed on a blanket,
His feet placed carefully between the legs of the drip-stand,
His head alongside the swelling catheter bag.
He is catching the rapid dreams stuttering down to him,
Rapped staccato in time with his master’s clenching hands.
His mind works fast, processing the material,
Changing the horror, switching the fantasy
Into good omens and heartening predictions.

Scheherezade is sitting in the corner,
Catching the floating facts in the still air,
Combing them slowly between her long, cool fingers,
Dwelling deliberately on small acts of kindness,
Teasing out pleasure from among the pain,
Singing the new songs softly in the night.

I hold a hand of each in each of mine,
Breathing with them, giving their spirits substance,
As they give me their voices in the dark.

 

Page(s) 144

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