Lew Watts

Sweet Mercy

This time, I don’t turn on the light. I search under the sheet for the notepad and pencil. The dream is still fresh, vivid. I try not to breathe. But as I press lead to paper, the memory fades and leaves without a word. It’s always like this. It’s always been like this, ever since I can remember. My therapist calls it suppression.

childhood stream . . .
the hook at the end
of a candy cane