The Warmth of Ten Fingers


    Dreams refuse to maneuver out of mind.


    I listen with ears of patience,


    wait until they are wheat-worn white.


    They are a thoughtless, tapping-temple


    thumb drumming


    while I rest with window facing chair.


    They occupy my space,


    until I lose my voice,


    loose my hair,


    become and disappear.


    These dreams are constant sets,


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    plays that lack memorized lines.


    Every room is of kitchen kind.


    The scenes are of unfed pets,


    who are domestic, resenting.


    The costume, a pink picked dress,


    pressed


    and each hair of mine


    made French, fresh, twined.


    This elaborate gown


    is not my bare, black desire.


    I wish for a vision of fingers


    to work these mean arms free


    and take this false skin from me.


    I scrape each bowl and plate chaste.


    My face is young peach clean.


    Mad beauty is an easy mother;


    she recalls essential sleep.


    -Kat Isacson