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When I woke from my dream

my hand was on fire.

It blazed like a stick of wood

and I put it out the same way

I would put out a torch: by beating it

against the dusty ground.

 

When I looked afterwards,

it was no longer my hand.

I could tell that it wasn’t mine,

blackened and twisted as it was.

 

My bones had never smoked in such a way.

 

I remember thinking that someone

had done this as a joke.

Somehow, I thought,

someone,

some BASTARD has taken my hand

and replaced it with this birds claw.

 

Behind me, my house was also burning.

But then I saw

it was not my house.

It was a garbage dump.

It was a dust heap.

It was a refuge for rodents.

 

In the house which was not my house

I could see bits of things.

Arms and legs that no longer belonged

to my children.

A scrap of cloth that no longer belonged

to my wife’s dress.

I could see many bits of things.

 

Two men came down the road

in black suits. They looked at me.

I looked at them.

 

Help me, I said.

 

They looked at me.

Shirts pressed and blinding white

And they looked at me.

 

What is that, one of them

asked the other,

pointing.

The other just frowned.

Shook his head.

 

I am a man, I said.

I waved the arm

that was not mine.

You must help me, I said.

I am a man.

 

It was when they left me

sitting in the dust

that I realized.

 

I was not a man after all.

 

I was a statistic.

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Ah, Cerise.

 

You've done it again, Darlin' -- touched me so.

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Cerise,

 

What I felt….

 

Pain, anger, sadness, resignation, poignancy

 

Thank you, it was wonderful.

 

IBF

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In the house which was not my house

I could see bits of things.

 

 

Wow, you are a really great writer. The attention to detail and your ability to not lose focus is incredible. In the house which was not my house... I waved the arm

that was not mine.

 

Just incredible.

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