Clyde Kessler
Stealing Blood
A dream is a vampire
biting the sunrise, dancing
with me and my father who died
three autumns ago, who never
danced, who taught whiskey
to the silence, and the house,
and framed the winter.
I rarely want to wake, rarely
wish the door eased shut
or slammed so it shakes
five houses across town.
In one dream, scarlet macaws
in Honduras are dancing
on a tray of papayas, are
not bothering to talk, not
even eating, just watching
me study their red feathers
because I’m now somehow
rich, and have all the money
so I can birdwatch 24/7
leaning on whiskey.
My father hands me a chisel
and I am carving a bird
from a baseball bat. He’s
laughing because tomorrow
we’ll nail it on a feeder tray
and watch moonlight waft
down through the sawdust,
and what’s left of the bat
is fluttering with teeth.
