I dreamt that I recited poetry
to keep myself dry during the rain.
The words fell out of my mouth
every inch, every pore of my skin
and I was safe.
I created my own words
to keep myself warm and
the heat, the vivacity
of the words I churned out
burned into smoke over the recitations.
I did not get wet.
I did not get cold.
Each new poem covered my senses
like a down blanket,
The rain watered down
with every drop, a word and
I lapped them up,
cupped a dictionary in my hands —
I drank the words and became drunk.
Lisa Bubert writes from Denton, TX. She has journeyed through phone book editing, freelance copywriting, scriptwriting for story times, puppet shows, and other miscellaneous toddler entertainment. Currently, she is writing short stories about grandmothers, and is obsessed with ages.