What does it mean this dream in an old journal?
They said he had been reformed
but one night in particular
I knew he’d go crazy. Darkness settled in.
We locked all the doors and windows.
Still, I felt dread
with my children gathered around me.
Others reassured me, “He’ll be fine.”
I knew better.
Is it about my father,
now in dementia’s emptiness,
who once took us to see Frankenstein
at the drive-in and how I’ve loved
horror movies since?
How he’d say “I’ll cut the blood
out of you” even after church?
Or perhaps it’s about my toddler son,
born missing a corpus collosum ,
with a diagnosis he could someday
be violent. Am I conflating him
with Mary Shelley’s dead, dream baby,
she described in her journal
and then channeled her deep grief,
like mine, to the famous novel?
Maybe, and stranger still,
could it be prescience
about the monstrous cancer
that has now spread through my house–
the bald head, the scars, the terror?