In the dream <br />the swastika is neon <br />and flashes like a strobe light <br />into my eyes, all colors, <br />all vibrations <br />and I see the killer in him <br />and he turns on an oven, <br />an oven, an oven, an oven, <br />and on a pie plate he sticks <br />in my Yellow Star <br />and then <br />then when it is ready for serving— <br />this dream goes off into the wings <br />and on stage The Cross appears, <br />with Jesus sticking to it <br />and He is breathing <br />and breathing <br />and He is breathing <br />and breathing <br />and then He speaks, <br />a kind of whisper, <br />and says . . . <br />This is the start. <br />This is the end. <br />This is a light. <br />This is a start. <br />I woke. <br />I did not know the hour, <br />an hour of night like thick scum <br />but I considered the dreams, <br />the two: Swastika, Crucifix, <br />and said: Oh well, <br />it doesn't belong to me, <br />if a cigar can be a cigar <br />then a dream can be a dream. <br />Right? <br />Right? <br />And went back to sleep <br />and another start.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-stand-ins/
