Nocturne

I have the same dream again:

an old woman sits before me.

I don’t know who she is, but

I am washing her hair,

and it all seems to make sense.

As I massage her scalp gently, lovingly,

in the suds 

big hunks of her hair

come out in my hands,

and then the skin itself.

I’m horrified, standing there

with ribbons of flesh 
hanging from my fingers.

I try to form words to ask her

if she is alright, but of course she isn’t…

I’m holding her bloody scalp in my hands.

Then I look down, and from the shiny, white

bone of her skull

poppies are growing, blooming.

And then it’s not her,

it’s me.


This is for the poeticaphobia prompt at dVerse Poets' Pub.