Rag, Dream

I dreamed a rag of a dream, holey and shredded. It woke in me a disturbing wonder and hope. And these thoughts. You take what comes--even a half-dead hatchling. You feed and love it; that's all you can do. Try to find what fits this little life of yours, although it seems strange and deformed. Just go on - try to find what fits. You don't have to think twice; you care for what is your own. The caring comes with the birthing, no matter how unremarkable the birth.

To catch a dream. Set your alarm for fifteen minutes earlier than usual, and sit up as soon as it wakes you. Have pen and paper close by, to write before you do anything, anything at all. What does the dream say about your writing? Your life?

What I dreamed was that I had a baby, unformed, the nub of a body with a seahorse tail. It slipped from me unfelt and hardly noticed. Will it live? I wondered. When I nursed it, there was a surge of hope. Teeny lips on nipple. I placed it in the middle of my hospital bunk and went looking for the right small bed. I hoped someone wouldn't overlook, sit on, or crush my child while I was gone. Finally, I found a cloth billfold with red oriental fabric which made a perfect bed for my strange baby. I don't know if it lived in the end. The dream did not say.