Flowered Grave
Emma Kollman

In most of the dreams I remember from childhood I am fearful,
Always rescuing my mother
from a hidden something but I could never find out what.
Or not rescuing anyone in particular but still trying to save
anyone who was available,
I’d always wake up before I ever could.
For years the only language I had within my tiny body were
the “I’m sorry’s” tossed from my oesophagus.
“I’m sorry” seemed as likely an explanation as anything to me.
What does it mean to dream myself whole?
What does it mean to hold your pieces together every night
so you don’t crumble under the
weight of “it’s fine.”
Deep beneath my lungs, lies all the dust from these dreams.
I always sweep them up and toss them in the bin with old batteries
Hoping one day I’ll take them where they need to go
but I know I never will.
I’ll just let the dust collect dust until one day my children spread
it over my flowered grave.
If I can afford one.
Then maybe it will finally land where it needs to be.
Seeping back into my brittle bones showing all the worms
that are disintegrating me who I
once was,
Just a little girl who was so sorry.
62