Dream Room

The wooden chair and table in the painting
dominated the room: their darkness glowed
in three dimensions, with the angle rising

as if I were uplifted by the collar
and swung towards a window or a mirror.
"This room is magic," one said at my shoulder.

"Yes, but a good magic," I proposed,
being drawn slowly down its glittering depth
and seated at the table. On the armrest

were bead-sized figures shaped as cartoon kids
face down in rows, with teeth as sharp as ferrets,
that ate their way along the polished wood

in corrugated furrows inch by inch
but always laterally in my direction.
their numbers multiplied with each advance,

until the panic-bubble swelled and broke
to push repeated cries out of my throat,
its rags subsiding round me while I woke.


© Brian Fewster,
Published in Resurgence, 1994

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