I dreamt my father’s hunting knife was worn down to a twisted wrist.
The blade’s remains shed rust.
Like it was us the killing skinned.
Pale palmed, beseeching.
Sorry in the viscid truth
And even then,
while eating,
grieving
remnants
of what it meant to live.
Just yesterday, I woke up feeling horrid. I must have got a bad meal the night before, and was very ill all day. In the midst of my wretching, I had to try to be positive, I felt so very badly. I tried to be thankful that I had a body that knew, and had the strength, to reject a bad thing. And like in your dream, I gave much thanks for my life, even while so naseuos. Today I seem to be recovered, another miracle of body.