stuck with the sandman

In a bad dream, I might encounter a figure 

with a shape like a stranger I know. Are we somewhere 

past midnight? What colour is your heart—

is your backbone as asleep as your conscience? Can

I confront you without consequence— 

or are we lassoed in a loophole, 

with your signature attached just outside of the periphery? 

You look like yourself and yet, you don’t look the way 

you did in our last separation. Your shadow has a dusty fragrance. 

Are you yourself in this place—

or is it possible that my vulnerability created the means

for a discussion? Swallowed in sheets, I cannot be wholly

concerned about dignity. I don’t recoil as I

would in the waking world, and it’s only when I feel this toxic liberty 

that the flavour of my nightmare—

shifts to a scarce catharsis. It’s dangerous;

the inconsequential dimension of falling asleep, and

how it brings to life the dreamer’s needs.

I thought the sandman was a villain,

but I fear he found the one in me.

© Mollie Mardel