Just When We Are Lost by Gail Martin

 

The neurologist wants me to believe dreams are mechanical, tired neurons trying to reattach,
reorganize, following connections dropped like bread crumbs in the forest. Waking, there’s
often the sound of paper tearing, the plink plink of peanuts filling up the gas line. And just when
we are lost and forget which side of the body our heart is on, we are given the dream of a girl
drinking her milk, eating deep cake where the center piece is entirely frosting. Or glide through
a clearing where April stands drying herself beside the river, pulling on her long green gloves.

 

GAIL MARTIN’s book Begin Empty-Handed won the Perugia Press Poetry prize in 2013 and was awarded the Housatonic Prize for Poetry in 2014. Her first book, The Hourglass Heart (New Issues Press), was published in 2003. She works as a psychotherapist in private practice in Kalamazoo.