“What do geese dream of?
Of maize.”
-Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams
inside his salty shelter the badger smells himself.
he is the entombed pharaoh reading hieroglyphic dreams.
outside the snow piles up, inertia
fumbles at his door but cannot move the stones.
the pharaoh sleeps. he waits.
the river under Faucette's field drips slowly,
when will the cup be filled and tip
to wash him with its waters?
he yearns towards the quilted grubs,
their saucy saraband seductive as the call
from any Kairo market stall. their heat defies
the barometric pressure's drop. he is beguiled.
but now, through dark, roots grow, their ribs surround
his sleeping form. he groans, blunt-snouted,
noses at the nets that wrap him close,
his opiate stupor turning blue sky
to litmus red of poppies. he digs
his heavy head beneath his paws, cries out
for mother with her bursting teats.
he sobs. and now the river's dry, the ferryman
returns him to the shore. he curls into his claws,
growls once to hear his voice. I am, he dreams,
I am, I am, and then he sleeps again
