by Theadora Siranian
|after a dream of Dalí
All the airplanes are disappearing.
they take off
into the wood chipper grinding
7 AM and I lie in bed
Something is not one thing but an unwinding
Something is the sweater snagged,
the world growing smaller as it grows larger.
The silence of those back bedroom days
becoming less violent
All those notes taped
the weather of broken ribs and genetic discontent
for sadness and grocery lists,
A room built of acid and honey, an iron cage strewn with irises:
Watching someone mad grow old.
Give me an intact airplane.
The waves look like wounds
Watch me walk the airports alone.
A dinosaur lives inside Chicago.
Everyone knows this.
In the dream it’s morning and I find her.
Seventeen floors down,
The tigers are gone,
Death like a series of potholes,
just another in a long collection
and here, see: a pomegranate
Theadora Siranian is an MFA Poetry candidate at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. She has had poems appear in Gigantic Sequins, mojo, elimae, and DIAGRAM. In 2007 she received the Academy of American Poets Prize from Emerson College, and was selected for inclusion in the Best New Poets 2012 anthology series.