He shakes me again, in panic, fearing the drop,
or crash or whatever tonight’s ephemeral terror
may be. Perhaps like last weekend, he’s drowning,
the carbons of the purple Pacific, being held down,
Gideon’s flaming left hand, the blaze burning his
scalp under water, nidor and its moist conflagration
a symbol of something, he says, but can never stay
sleep long enough to see. So as heavy, humid hands
grip my shoulder, clutching a wide hip, rocking to
freefall rhythms, I hear electric, violin screeches
within our silent room. The sounds of torrential gasps--
they make me nauseous, the wheezing of lost
breathes, the whine of water as it fills contracting
lungs and I want nothing more than to squeeze his
hands, whispering, It’s just a dream, love, to wipe
a sweating head, the slender rills of rogation, a cool
rag to calm the heat, awaken him and rejoice. But if
I do he may never recognize, understanding the
quietuses of reveries, the pain inflictions and warisons,
the swollen, specious laughter, that devilish grin Gideon
flaunts, the gurgles of his feat. Thus, I leave him there,
fluttering in that dark jorum, eyes clinched, air sifting,
helpless. And he reminds me of myself. No doubt we
both pray in this moment. Lord, please give him strength
that before he sips last breathes, Gideon reveals, telling
Charles about himself, explaining opprobrium, the
demolition of our marriage, that fragile stele, shame,
that perhaps my eyes will glare through the fire, blending,
red as they are bloodshot, a limned vein of my choler,
JESUS! I ask you for forgiveness, a polemic protesting,
the unction of us and all the wrong that he has done.
Mimi Ferebee is a full-time writer in Chesapeake, Virginia. A William and Mary graduate who received a B.A. in English (Creative Writing) and Psychology (Developmental and Behavioral Science), she recently retired a career as a Clinical Therapist, pursuing her primary passion. When not working to complete a feministic poetry anthology and her first novel (psychological-fiction), she sends poems out for publication to remind herself of why she writes full-time: to get hands dirty with real human emotion. Her poetry has been seen in a number of print and online publications, refer to A Tribute for Mothers, The Cherry Blossom Review and Amphibi.Us for recent acceptances and upcoming publications.