Light tumbles out of a cave like
holding a son, the baby.
White circles falling.
I am beside the green woods, the saplings.
You would not know me.
Body like an onion.
Sister-voices, scratchy
as tumbleweed. No birds,
just eggs falling from a white nest.
A clearing with blossoms.
The man who is sometimes me is messed up.
Doesn’t he see the flight in his head?
Clay swamp and rising grass.
The man messes everything up
with no mouth, scribble head.
He and I are complicated,
looking down at our feet, rocks.
In the dream, he and I flew.
Green lily pads of land, lit up
protecting our grown children
in our scratched-out nests inside our troubled minds.
Nancy Bryan has been at work for many years, making a book of poems, The Blue Lantern. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and shares her passion with writing students at Brookdale Community College in their Lifelong Learning Center and as an adjunct English instructor. Nancy lives in Fair Haven, N.J.
