Several years ago, this wrote itself one night as I was in a world between sleep and wakefulness.
Angel Wings
I’m half asleep in my bed, my eyes are closed.
Must stretch my legs so I don’t get cramps in them.
Lying on my left side, with my hand and fingers in my hair.
Oh. I’m so happy to still have my hair. So many don’t.
I have a little itch, and immediately images fill my mind
of people whose heads are so filled with lice
that their scalp is moving.
Still, with my eyes closed,
with my right hand, I feel my left arm.
Oh. I’m so happy I still have ample flesh and it’s soft.
I’m not just skin and bones. So many are.
I’m happy to feel a gentle breeze from a summer fan.
I smell the scent of lavender and roses.
It could stifling, without a breath of air.
There could be the stench of death, disease and
putrid things lingering in the air.
I roll over on my back and stretch out my angel wings
as far as they will go.
I think of his lips on mine, and our deep, soulful kiss.
I wrap my wings around my beloved,
and we fly away together.
Oh. I’m so happy to still have thoughts of love,
rather than of hunger, terror and hopelessness.
In my bed, I open my legs as far as they will go
and move my feet up and down, and point my toes
like a ballet dancer.
Oh. I’m so happy to have been born in the year I was born.
It could be 1939, and I’m half asleep, lying in
a crowded bunk bed in a Nazi Prison Camp.
Some realities turn into nightmares.
Some nightmares turn into reality.
