A Feather Stuffed Pillow
by G. C. Jeffers

I looked at her wondering
what was going through her mind.
Noticing my look she asked if we could talk

about life and love and God above.
About me and you and all that is true.
About eagle’s wings and just how far freedom rings.

My answer was clear: No.
You see. I am done philosophizing.

No more you and me and the goddamned tree
where we sat comfortably and openly
spewing our vociferous diatribe
content with our demons and confident of our categories.

Yesterday I yearned to espouse the Truth
I knew and so should you and who wants
to die without Truth? Yesterday I rode into
battle in the saddle on a white stallion.

My armor rattled. My sword raised I engaged
my enemies as others joined the fray.
I fought them all. I knew their ways.
I stabbed their hearts. I crushed

their brains. I was successful in every way—
for a time. Then, drops of my own blood
started to fly. Their fierceness in battle,
their prowess in arms, the strength of their numbers,

I sounded the alarm. ‘To me, my comrades,’ I
yelled as I ran. ‘Rally to me and fight.
we’ll make a last stand.’

Then I woke up.
My horse was a feather stuffed pillow.
My enemies were shadows of shredded
silk, and I had almost strangled myself

in an effort to ward off the bed sheets.
This dualistic and clearly demarcated
division of the world into me and you/
us and them/ black and white/ blind and

sight/ her and him/ old and new
is and was my invention. I claim this cosmic
battle as my identity. I am right. You are wrong.
So say we all. We all are right. We all are wrong.

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