Carol Hamilton

My grown daughter was delusional
in intensive care after double pneumonia
and encephalitis. So later
at a Texas restaurant, when she saw
the stuffed moose nod its head,
we, worried, exchanged meaningful looks,
then watched the creature,
it quite at rest.

I remember only one nightmare
from childhood, I in my crib,
holding the rail, terrified
at the hairy mounting
on my wall. Where I might
have ever seen a moose
I cannot imagine,
but the vision remains stark.

We asked the Texas waitress
if the head moved, and she said
she hoped not because, “It’s dead!”
In the end, one granddaughter saw
the motion, and finally we all did,
it timed to nod every six minutes.
But why such anxiety from this simple,
once-shambling beast?

A Spanish Cavalier graced
my parents’ wall, his eyes
following me everywhere.
I tried to hide from him.
Perhaps, as some faiths say,
images should not be kept.
Do not some tribal peoples
believe photographs steal souls?

Unseeing eyes, I now think …
walking mummies, zombies,
glassy insertions in heads
of guileless creatures,
(and let me add here,
blank stares all around) …
such are of the stuff to shake
us out of our sweet dreams.