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.