Mornings, I wring out my dreams,
hang them on the clothesline
to dry. When no one is watching,
I suck what’s gathered
from the bottom edge.
Oh, the taste of a cartoon page
during the illusion
of movement. How reality
gets lost each time the puppet
shuffles cards, the quick
flip as bedsheets whip,
another actor on a string.
Click here to read Beth Williams on the origin of the poem.
Image by Erich Ferdinand on flickr.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Beth Oast Williams is the author of the chapbook Riding Horses in the Harbor (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her poetry has been accepted for publication in RHINO, Grist, Nimrod, Salamander, EcoTheo Review, The Shore, SWWIM, One Art, and Rattle's Poets Respond, among others, and nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.