Timothy Pilgrim (a journalism professor at in Bellingham) is a Pacific Northwest poet who has published over 100 poems, mostly in literary journals.
Together, we maneuver a steep hill
then a loop. I drop you off,
head three streets down,
turn into a cul-de-sac, mine,
crawl up the walk, through door,
go blind, die. Later, I count ravens
mourning out back. They form
a long line over my grave, caw out
in unison, weep. I kneel, pray,
rise, drive away, intent.
We tend to make death
more important than it really is.
I fall asleep in some old barn,
drift away on heaps of straw.
A lone rooster awakens me,
crows, "rise, open eyes."
It is curious how things,
like cocks, can be so familiar:
combs, red, feathers shine,
eyes beady, yet intent.
Nestled back in golden nest,
I urge the rooster to complete
its song -- join in, sing along,
face another accidental dawn.
In my dream
we stand together,
naked, on our bed.
The fire licks red.
I reach around, make you
excited. We bounce upward,
together, heads slap ceiling
until mattress and frame break.
I reach out, grab the headboard,
try to steady us
so we can stay together.
You push the wood stove over,
it falls into pieces, no coals glow.
I throw one fire brick
at the lamp, break its glass.
Shade still on, it lands upright.
The yellow bulb burns bright.