After a Nap & Northern Lights
After a Nap
Her left arm’s gone
numb, and the porch
is dark, sunlight scattered
like the remnants
of her dream:
a camel
riding a camel toward stables
no reins
then soldiers
friend, foe?
sweat in rivulets
white flame sky
a child, running
stumbling—
She reaches for a blanket,
suddenly chilled, needing
water, needing to know
what happened,
who the child was,
where she went.
Northern Lights
My mind floats
under the northern lights.
Wouldn’t it be gorgeous
if my eyes were there, too?
They’re captive
to my surroundings, though,
and only sleep
will unbind them.
Then my pupils
will drop like pebbles
into memory, and my irises
will turn to lilies
of the valley
of dreams.
Come to me there, floating,
when sleep rescues you, too,
and we will settle down
on our blanket
under a green, ocean,
star-foamed
sky.
Mary McCormack’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gingerbread House, Storm Cellar, After the Pause, Plum Tree Tavern, and Neologism, among others. If you’d like to read more of her poetry, check out her book, Away From Shore.