Susan UttingSusan Utting 


A Charm Against Dreaming

Not to dream of the ice on the inside of windows. Not to dream of the death
of a bird, the petroly sheen of its wings, still warm, the rough pleating
of feathers, an after-show dead beat, the plume from a showgirl’s headdress.

Not to dream and re-dream the glint of its eye, pin-sharp, a mirror, alive
with that look, fixed at the world, un-shuttered, indifferent. Not to dream
of its panting heart, curled feet, their quiver and grip on the air. Of the quiet
at the still of its heart, ice on the inside of windows, the petroly sheen;
a charm against nothing but this and this and nothing between.

First published in The Interpreter’s House

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