Phew, Abby Schleifer I don’t know how you do these with such grace, but here’s my paint-chip poem.

At night i dream

of places i have

never been with

the clarity and precision

of intimate knowledge

i roam through mountain

towns like i own them

old barns like generations

of ancestors i never had

and fields of wild huckleberry or

at least that is what my dreams

keep telling me it is but

i do not trust my dreams

they have told me many things

that are demonstrably false

my father bringing me home

from Chicago when i know

he will never take me anywhere

again and i wake up with

his passing as fresh

and painful as ever

in those moments i wish never

to sleep or dream again, to run

wild as timber wolves through

the dreams of others telling them

the lies they are subject to and yet

i know those lies are a small blessing

gleaming like the antique brass

at the foot of the bed

they are reminders that

i am still here among

the living at least for now

and i have roots i come from

and places i am meant to see.