September 6, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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Lianne Kamp




While We Sleep



It couldn’t have been my dream,

this aberration – but it

invaded my corner of night


and I was there, complicit

as it unfolded – watching the

water stream from the spigot –


first the translucent color

of cellophane and then darker,

full of shadows, blood red and ash


I lay stunned and naked in the tub

as the water rose, and they fell

from the faucet – these large creatures


mistaken for homely mermaids

by travel-weary explorers,

I recognized their ancient eyes


had read once that they were built

for peace, even alligators

let them pass unmolested


and so, I too moved aside as they

nudged my thighs with their rounded heads

and whiskered faces, filling my lungs


with prehistoric air before they

floated, belly up and lifeless,

while I drowned under their weight


back into consciousness and felt

them there – washing up on distant shores

in someone else’s nightmare,


under the same moonlight that shone

in the same sky that drifted

inside my window













Lianne Kamp

Lianne Kamp resides in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poems and short stories appear in assorted print journals and online publications including: Poets Reading the News, Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, Scarlet Leaf Review, Poetry Quarterly, Dual Coast Magazine, and a number of Prolific Press anthologies. She writes poetry to make her world-view more panoramic by examining it more closely.

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