Dreaming in American
by M. Frost
From The Model 8 Polysomnograph
I'm driving through a Latin American city,
only a month in country, a week for Honduras.
[As Kingsolver would say, my dreams are still
catching up.]
There are large, nasty, rodent-like creatures along the road
holding human skulls in their paws and turning them
over and over.
They're organized.
They march like an army.
In a photo taken from behind, they look almost human,
wear bright orange hoods, like hunters.
I arrive at
a house full of spirits.
[No he leído Allende.]
Someone died in that house —
the haunting is genuine.
When I enter the hall, the dream tells me
other things:
the lady under the hill wants to die,
the rats march
on the city, and flooded Río Choluteca
washes brown with the winter rains.
My car skids on wet stone, but I have
flown away,
like a ghost.