The Selves to the Scientists
The scientists ask us to describe our dreams.
Are they always this way? Yes.
We dream we are with the dough man.
The folds of our skin fan out in pleats.
The scientists ask about fluidity. Sometimes
we tilt our frame and spill our red dot out.
Other times, we are the mouth facing
the looking-glass, an image. We wonder to believe
the tree-lined street. To his house?
Yes, Scientists, to his house. He sits at the edge
of the bed. He takes our hand in his mouth.
Layers of sleep fold back fans of skin.
Searching they plead, color? We insist
on Valentine’s, though we can see the face-less man
in purples; we dream shades of crimson.
Honestly, it isn’t always this way--
for once the pleats are arms and we struggle
against the surface—He flees, grinning,
but oh, Scientists, as we catch him, we swear,
he looks scared.
About the author:
Biographical Info—Madeline Vardell is a MFA candidate at New Mexico State University. Her poems have appeared in The Cleveland Review, and forthcoming in Rhino, Pank, & Whiskey Island. She lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico.