The monkey that bursts from my torso
burns toast and blisters thumbs.
It swings on bone asymmetric bars,
palms strapped in waxed cotton.

A doll-sized heel kicks in a balloon
bomb of raspberry leaves
while the monkey slips from rib to spine,
fast and strong as a drum.

An old soul licks its lips,
swallows salt water, savours the taste
of roasted buffalo
flesh between teeth, wet with juice and blood.

Need to add another stanza from the earlier draft where I wake from the dream but I’m not really in the dream but I’d like to capture the feeling afterwards – FEAR – of something bigger and stronger than you at work over which you have little control.