My body rises when my dream self sleeps

In my dream I am a primitive, grisly being with black-oiled, scraggly hair, chewing on gristle and crouched low at a precipice of rock. I gaze at an animal—sleek and smooth, greasy in movement and intention—circling the burial place of my beloved sister. I tear out my hair in long strands and scream at this sleek intruder ‘til my throat is raw and raspy, but he never entirely leaves. Sometimes he argues just with his eyes—lazy and impassable—dripping easy excuses for his presence which is anathema—since he was her killer.

She was my beauty, my safety, my sound soul, my cultivated culture. She was my laughter and hearth—trusting and proud and ebullient. Now I am all that is left of our generation. I am strong and ugly, coarse and anxious, endlessly hungry, Protector of death. Libation-bearer at liberty yet chained to pain—guarding a corpse most dear—and sacrificing my future in the process.

If I pack up my bones and rags and journey on, he will dig up my beauty and eat it—finishing a murder to its clean conclusion. I am afraid to stay. I feel myself regressing. Yes, even I am capable of regression.

Mary Wyatt Matters