Cheryl Hicks
bio

Flight Risk

I had the dream gun in my dream hand last night
but the scene didn’t go as far as death

it was like falling off a building and waking
before making the ground my final home

and I sat up, wondering
how I could have botched the landing

again

some nights I almost die in my sleep
I keep the muzzle pointed at my head

and though I’m tentatively anchored
by bed sheets and promises of the good life

my saving grace is reality, and knowing
that the end is only a figure of speech

The Trouble with Dreams

In my last dream last night I was headed home,
having had sex twice without waking,
when my car stalled on the familiar farm-to-market.
Two big men held a bigger yellow banner
with the unframed question, “Agent Arquaro?”
Not me, but I didn’t exactly feel safe
with my windows down and my doors unlocked,
so I pretended to be as dead as a marzipan woman
until they eventually lost interest.

Having dreamt you twice last night,
I was sure it was you who leaned your smile
against my knees, but when I searched nearby,
I found no elegant sweep of thigh,
no blinding light, or reliable
heat-seeking hands, just crumpled sheets.