the odor of flowers

I dreamt of my sister, in the odor of flowers and polaroid snapshots creeping up the bedroom walls for my eyes were open a slash of light between my dark eyebrows and high cheekbones allowing anyone to view me. One polaroid one-fading image of tired, unpainted dark hair falling around my mother as she leaned over an incubator where tiny baby sister lay, hands extended and just a blur where one would expect the baby eyes to be looking. Two polaroid two-a vase of yellow lilies ejecting a rod holding up a tiny Teddy bear with a small picture between his paws and a black bandanna wraps around his head. Three polaroid three-blurry dark figures walking in a possession into a tan colored building with a white spire pricking the dark, gray sky.
The cicada struggles against the string I have tied him to my finger with.
I am tied to these images and I too struggle with them. They infect my dreams, splashed against the vaults of my mind like bad graffiti on a subway wall.
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