several kinds of capture

i wake up again & again
in my childhood bed:
mattress sunken in
& sheets bright blue 
laundry soap smelling
in the hallway something is pacing.
i imagine the broken-rib bed springs
as a field of parched rose bushes. 
my green curtains blow open.
i remember nothing of the dreams
but sensation.
i stand in the middle of the room.
the last dream left me
asking lichens to dress my body 
in their soft green continents
as if to ask for reprieve from 
buttons & zippers.
they grew slowly & i pleaded with them 
to hurry because i was hiding from something. 
this was a time lapse video
of the forest where i witnessed
mushrooms pushing 
their skulls up from the moss.
the leaves blushed & fainted
to the earth. 
the worst part about a dream
is no one else in it believes you.
i was trying to tell someone how scared i was
of being captured but they were running away from me.
they were laughing. they thought 
i was playing tag. we needed to find
an exhibit of glass sculptures 
but all our phones had died. the subway was 
lush with ferns. 
a jaguar prayed the bible 
as he walked on the ceiling. 
a parrot said
over & over if you see something say something
if you see something say something
i spoke back to the parrot
we are going to be captured 
we all have to leave.
in my room the dream flicks. turns to rubber.
turns to carpet.
drags a finger across a window. 
i am too old
to be scared of the dark i tell myself 
i shine a flash light 
in every corner of the room. 
the full length mirror reveals me.
my face flushed. my body still covered
in lichens.