Issue 12
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Audrey Friedman
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Even If I Were A Peddler
The night spinning refuses to invite me in
as if I peddled snake oil elixirs at its door.
No valises heavy with deception.
I can almost touch the silken threads of dreams.
Even if I were a peddler pounding on the door,
or the neighbor begging yet another egg,
why deny me refuge in a dream?
I fluff the pillows and burrow in the quilt,
not the neighbor begging for an egg.
Please direct me to sleepy clucks of swans.
I rearrange the pillows one more time, longing
for the lake of weightless dreams.
Songs of swans ebb into the distance.
I carry no valises heavy with deception.
The sky purples out those weightless dreams
of night spinning that has spun itself away.
~Audrey Friedman
Audrey Friedman lives in Rhode Island. She is pursuing an M.F.A. in poetry at Vermont College. Her work appears in numerous journals, including California Quarterly and The Newport Review. Her chapbook, Gallery of the Surreal, has been recently published. Email.
© 2003 by Audrey Friedman. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.