Sleep wandered from my eyes at 3am. Household gods and humbug
Pranced around the darkened room as the moon set. Moonshine
Was a key word in the kids' book I had read to my daughter before bed,
Meaning flummabibble, bad and good, and ultimately the name of a gerbil
Standing in for a nonexistent baby kangaroo on an ill boy's pillow. Moonshine,
And then the real deal when the stars signal how far apart they really are,
Infernos in their thousands too weak by now to throw shadows. The real
Point is that these guardians and fairies and demons of dreams resist
Identification. We give them stories and rules and figurines.
We give them greetings and superstitions. We make small of them,
Our terafim, and are baffled when, like Rumpelstiltskin, they lay claim
To our flesh in return. We make little monsters of them who make us
Little monsters to ourselves. We owe them, and we should rest when we can
Accept any blessing wrestled from them, then let them go. Let us go.
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