Poetry by Bleah Patterson

Carl Wycoff CC




My grandma says dreams are little prophecies, we just have to ask God what they mean 

she dreams of                  cows 
she dreams of 
                 a field full of    cows 
                 and they all need her 
                       “they all need me” 
she’s saying when she wakes up 
                                 the       cows 
      they’re women 
“God” tells her 
     “they’re women who 
                        need me” 

     and then there’s the toilets
she dreams of       dirty    toilets
                                              toilets that
                         need        to be cleaned 
       but she needs to pee
                not until the    toilets are cleaned 
“God” tells her 
              “help others before you help yourself”
she knows, “that’s what it means”

                                 of course
I dream of    her 
I dream of    her                cooking
                        she feeds us all, 
                                before she feeds herself, at a large table 
                        she feeds us my uncle first
                                                     his left thigh, his right arm 
                                                 he’s greasy but I don’t tell her that
I dream                even here               of being polite 
                 afraid                                      of what she might do 
    
                          she feeds us my mother next 
                 “it might be a little           tough,” she 
                                                                                apologizes 
                                 and she’s right, my mother so much 
                                 even here                           like herself 
                                 even simmered slow and low 
                “beat it until it’s tender,” my grandma’s voice echoes 
                                through my childhood up until now
I dream                we devour them all, all of her children 
I dream                I escape          the house 
                right before we run out of meat 
                   for stew 
                              for bolognese 
                                              for pot roast 
I dream             she ate herself                  because 
                                             there was no one left
              she was going to eat you next
“God” says in my dream 
            “she was going to eat you next” 
I’m saying when I wake up 


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Bleah Patterson (she/her) was born and raised in Texas. She is a poet exploring generational and religious trauma. A current MFA candidate at Sam Houston State University, her work featured in The Brazos River Review; The Texas Review; the tide rises, the tide falls; The Hyacinth Review; and elsewhere.