PSYCHIC DREAM, 1914
A novelist wakes in early morning from his dream, a sinking ship.
He thinks it’s a falling feather,
skin left behind with his waking
so that there might be room for more—
After sixty years, even in his death moment,
the single image left un-plucked
is that of a man in oilskins,
bent double beside a companion,
under the blow of a great wave—
PSYCHIC DREAM, 1991
I swam with the salmon rush.
Heads hit rock and white foam
where endings went missing—
I was up to the waist in us,
swimming against a stream
with the slick bodies of my cohort.
The telephone rang as if underwater.
The telephone rang louder
and wobbled a bit.
So I woke in answer,
my baby girl at the foot of the bed,
telephone to her cheek.
But Mama always dreams of fish
when someone’s having a baby.
Katie Amundsen is a professor of composition living in Wisconsin. She has recently earned her MFA in poetry from Wichita State University, and you can find her work published or forthcoming in Swarm, The Mid-American Review, and SLANT.