REM

Melissa Gutierrez

If you’ve ever woken in a dream
after the movie has taken you through confetti images that would make Freud smirk
because they go back and forth in time like Billy in the fifth slaughterhouse but hybrid to

match the patches in the psyche that had opened
in the darkest parts of language and pictures
and glossed over the web bridges that
spin in the fire to hide the philosopher-defying truth

the silence after which is so still in the mid-morning
under the blankets that seem so fragile now

that there’s a feeling that screams are appropriate
to identify the pieces that have fallen, without being asked,
into the places torn open in the synapse nests of matter

where there are hidden shards of broken off memories from the top of the iceberg
to protect you from the mass in deeper waters

there’s this time between ticks when the image
of the man who made you feel safe from the shadow and destruction
from the building collapsing in inevitable, apocalyptic hush

took you, running, into his arms and held you against his tweed jacket,
held you, even though you both knew that in seconds
the specter would eat you both,
held you, even as panic shrieked symphonies like blood shots in his eyes

when it woke you in the dream
as the realization pinches that this isn’t your father,
isn’t anyone you know outside of the square screens in which you found him born
of the mind of genius outside your vision

he’s only a character, a trope, a shadow himself
and the supreme safety you felt in his arms when he held you without motive,
without heat, the absolute peace felt even in the face of Demon
is nothing you will ever feel outside your skull.