The Day the Dreamcatcher Backfired by Betsy Mars

from a black hole dense with dream debris

it spewed out neverending falls from buildings 

and bridges, a finger’s width from hitting bottom,

shapes shifting in the shadows,

shrapnel flying, close escapes.

The final exam is today.

You've slept through the semester

and forget your baby in the carseat,

left thirsting on the side of the road.

A sinkhole opens up, its dark mouth swallows all.

A wolf stalks you, ducking between trees

you jump into bottomless lakes

which suck you down

unswimming, limbs flail –

you fail to outrun the car

barreling and careening 

towards you, its brakes broken.

You turn and there's a monster 

in the closet and everyone laughs.

You're naked 

yet pee your pants,

wetting the bed. The twisting sheets turn

into seaweed, strangle and suffocate. 

No one can hear you, screams stifled in

the boiling chokehold of your broken mind.

Betsy Mars lives in the Los Angeles area with her small menagerie. She is a poet, educator, mother, and eager traveler. Her work has appeared in the California Quarterly, Antiheroin Chic, and Illya's Honey, among others.