POEM: One-Sixtieth Prophecy

By Janet R. Kirchheimer April 3, 2015

Near the house,
next to the woodpile,
lies a dream

too weak to enter.

I hold my shadow down as it
tries to escape, shut the windows,
bar the doors, imagine myself
bright and shiny.

I am Joseph in the bor, the pit, empty of water,
but full of scorpions and serpents.

There is no one to listen

to my dreams, no one to interpret them but God.
Or I am Pharaoh.
The interpretations
do not satisfy me, I do not find any relief.

Who will interpret for me?

God will heal you with your own
wounds, declares the prophet Jeremiah.

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