A Poem: Sweet Dreams and Other Fantasies

When I was a child,
On those blind nights,
When my mother would pour
The liquid torch
To the flame
Of her sad moon dreams,
I would fall asleep
With Thomas Alva Edison.

We would curl up,
Tell each other stories,
He—nitroglycerin in glass,
Me—honey and vinegar dressings.
We would stop on the trestle,
Passengers on the same train.
I would be the watch.

He would lower
The tiny vial
Of liquid dynamite
Into the raging falls below.
Postponing disaster,
I would drift to sleep.

My only weapons
Intelligence and creativity
Against the forces of fear
Anger
One and the same.