poetry by holly fortune ratcliff

I Dreamt Still

I imagined myself a life 
in which I placed the stems 
of flowers into vases. 
Half-life artifacts, 
the sightless plants 
could not preen toward light 
but still sucked from their watery basins. 
I imagined this life in which 
stroking and gripping at the cat’s neck 
were indistinguishable modes of touch. 
There were only ducks biting at raw 
corn kernels that covered gray dirt 
as snow, their beaks eager and pointed.
I dreamt still of the creek there
overtaking its wooden bridge. 
A familiar place dissolved
in nature’s mouth, 
its saliva degenerating the city’s careful plans 
that wouldn’t have calculated for
overflowing humana: 
my friend’s used furniture risen 
from the Fourth of July front lawn, 
his petaled head effortlessly removed from stem.