Rebecca Brandow Poetry

The faucet is leaking again, a measured, solid drip.
I’ll get it fixed soon.
So many nights I have counted each desperate droplet.
I hold my breath.
The drip’s guaranteed presence, a device to insure each exhalation.
I fall asleep.
I’m running through the woods.
I stop and yell her name.
There is no answer.
Keep running.
Somehow I know she is close by.
Stop… I hear it.
I slight humming.
I turn, there under a tall pine.
She sits with her knees drawn up to her chest,
Wearing a frilly, white dress,
With pink ribbon in the bodice and matching bows in her mass of chestnut curls.
Head bent, as she manipulates a twig with her fingertips.
She begins to sing “Here comes the sun. Doo, doo, doo, doo. Here comes the sun!”
I smile.
“You’re going to get your pretty dress dirty.”
I reach down to help, but she looks up.
Her round, little face, with pink cheeks, tiny nose and dimpled chin.
Just as I remember.
I look into her eyes…
They’re not there.
I’m staring at two black orifices,
Darker than a mother’s womb.
I am drawn into their depths.
Struggle for breath.
“I’m drowning,” harshly whispered.
She smiles up at me,
Singing, “And I say! It’s all right.”
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.
Did you ever find yourself counting the ceiling tiles?
Counting the number of little flecks on a ceiling tile?
Then, did you wonder if all the ceiling tiles had the same amount of flecks?
Count another ceiling tile’s flecks to compare it to the first?
I never did, but I’ve thought about it.

Poet: Rebecca Brandow