by Charlotte Geater

I once dreamt of wearing a gasmask
leather, crackling. It was so thin
and yet it didn’t break. I didn’t pull at it
or tug, but I breathed it in and yet didn’t smell

There were sirens and a table and an
anderson shelter. I didn’t like the smoke
and bombs. A baby in a cradle.
In the darkness, I thought you were lost
my arms didn’t find your shoulder
maybe your blood was silent.

when the thunder woke me up
I couldn’t understand why you were still there.