Dream of My Mother Buying a Hat

Dori Appel

Mother, I can't say that I approve
of black for spring,
nor do I understand how you will see
beneath that brim.
And the height of the thing,
the height!

I fear the portal may grab you
as you pass through
tripping you back
into your gingerbread kitchen,
your elbows melting in linoleum squares
your pointed hoes over your head

Travel
Mrs. Floyd Hitchock, Northglenn, Colorado

I have never been the same since I opened my eyes and
knew:
     That I had soared to
     Places unknown and far away;
     Had seen faces browned by the sun,
     And not like mine;
     Had seen the changing of the guard
     In a rainy London;
     Had been on an old Spanish stage
     Watching sweating Flamenco dancers;
     Had seen dew drops on leaves so
     Green, it seemed as if I had never
     Experienced green before;
     That I need never fear life,
     Or death, the unknown, because,
     I had done all these things
     With my body left at home
                                                                       In bed.

Dear Journal,
     Below  is  a  prose-poem  I  wrote  almost as  is, upon
waking.  It  came  out  so directly,  so  finished, that very
little editing or re-writing was necessary.

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