The Buffalo Woman
You remember a particularly disconcerting dream, one
that visited after your mother’s death. Your mother sat
on the old yellow vinyl couch from childhood and she wore
a troubled look. When she stood you saw how half her body was
missing, the lower half, and she held what looked like a bloody
placenta in her hands. When she asked you to take it, fear
coagulated like the blood on her hands, but you were too
frightened or confused to refuse. Receiving the carcass, not
knowing what else to do, you carried it to the backyard,
placed it on the grass in full sunlight. You wonder if this was
the bargain you made, accepting your mother’s severed
dreams instead of incubating your own. You marvel at the
power of the unconscious while seeking the key to
unlock the control tower and intercept the limiting
agreement upon which you built your creative
endeavors. You remember other dreams, arriving upon
incubation of cleverly guided questions. They too seemed
to lead to your mother, but you can never know if she’s a cause
or if you are an effect. Now the point seems moot and all
you can know is for some mysterious reason you block
your artistic dreams and you wish to god and the
universe you could ascertain how to stop doing it.