Dream Sonnet 3: Mother, Crater Lake
She contemplates her mirror-self, dead still
the afternoon air. No grasshoppers sing.
Lake limpid, a bowl of blue glass, a womb
too cold to swim. Volcano collapsed.
On the water’s surface, foliage floats
like debris in the fluid of an eye.
Below, tiny crustaceans sieve the depths,
diaphanous as foetuses, feeding.
She is lost to me, inhabits some new
element, a place inconceivable
to a metaphor mind. One breath will affirm
her long fall from this dream into another.
Published online September 10 2013.
Barbara Black was a double semi-finalist in the 2011 Writer’s Union of Canada Short Fiction Contest. Her writing recently appeared in FreeFall Magazine and Love in the Time of Predators (Leaf Press, 2012), a chapbook edited by Patrick Lane. Both the soon-to-be released anthology Poems from Planet Earth and the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts will feature her work. She lives in Victoria with her philosopher and cat.