Sleeping Places

I slept with Hieronymus while he dreamt up hell.

It’s not the same on panel, oh no: wood can’t hold color like that,

or the tongue in my ear that moved so slow, sounded like fangs.

But now I know how to keep quiet, and I still keep quiet.

I used to live in a house of sticks, but don’t worry, because this time

I built it with diorite and planted snapdragons in the yard.

At night I lock the doors and post my love letters in the window.

He only lit his cigarettes with matches--makes it taste better, he said,

and once while he smoked in bed, he dropped the box, and

I still find them sometimes, tangled in the sheets.  They scratch

my thighs and try for fire, but my bed is made of water.

I don’t think he realized that I dream too, and once I dreamt

I awoke at low tide holding a man-o-war like a bag of sand.

And over a sunless day, it slipped through my fingers, slithered away.

© Katherine Freeman, 2013

"Hell," by Hieronymus Bosch, circa 1490-1515
Oil on panel
Venice, Doge's Palace
Image from Wikimedia Commons