Laura Foley’s poem works to come to terms with loss by juxtaposing the language of dreams with one stark, unforgettable image.
Lapping Over Us
I walk around the busy block, inundated with sense impressions, spent matches pressed
on wet pavement, wind whistling roofs, a weary beggar leaning on a cane. All day, I’ve
sat and written almost nothing, just one sentence, a truth, about his penis. All day, I’ve
been reading of aesthetics and the unconscious, dreams and the will. Last night, I dreamt
of cats standing, two-legged on a beach, forepaws cuffed behind backs. How shall we
make sense of these images, lapping over us, day and night, or the sense in a sentence?
He could still hang a towel on it, erect, when he was eighty-three.
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