A CIGAR IS A CIGAR

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They tell me every one is just random

firings of neurons in the brain.
I should not read anything into
what accompanies dreams—

not the large, open-aired room
I stood in after burying my mother
nor the unidentified bird I watched
glide there on some unseen air.
I should forget what I have read
about stairs. And loose teeth.
If we walked on the tops of trees
with a view of fields that led to the sea
or something else vast and still
unknown in some ways, once,
it meant nothing beyond we walked
on the tops of trees with a view
of fields that led to the sea or something

else vast and still unknown
in some ways. I rose the other morning
to open the blind and see seven robins

stationed in the maple. This was late

December. There was snow on the ground.

I was not dreaming, and yet, even they,
I was told, meant nothing and it was best
if I stopped standing at the window
with any kind of wonder.

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BIO:

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​​Kelly R. Samuels is the author of two poetry collections and four chapbooks—the most recent Oblivescence (Red Sweater Press, 2024) and Talking to Alice (Whittle Micro-Press, 2023.) She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee with work appearing in Denver Quarterly, Sixth Finch, december, River Styx, and Faultline. She lives in the Upper Midwest.

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