Dan Chiasson / Dream

DREAM

by Dan Chiasson

Half in, half out of my dream:
        deer wander in a bright auditorium.
They are serene until they see me,
        when they bolt and scatter, looking for cover.

I stand frozen on the half-court line.
        If I move, the deer go berserk.
A doe just split her head open
        when she rammed the cinderblock wall;

a fawn pulls all her fur apart, and gags
        on mouthfuls of hide she can’t spit.
I see the hunger in their stenciled ribs,
        the furniture inside their skin.

—And then I’m spared, alone in bed.
        I’m forty-six, a trespasser
in my dream gym. The deer are children.
        I’m the maypole they dance around.