AFTER A BAD DREAM Poem by Henrik Nordbrandt

When I woke, the lid sat in its place
on the big black kettle
and as for the cannibals
only an echo
of their exotic names remained.

The bookmark stuck out of the book on the nightstand
in exactly the right place
and when I put my feet out of the bed
I saw that the laces
were correctly in my shoes.
And my socks lay right beside them.

There was no crocodile under the bed
and the spider
that sat in waiting behind the door
had gone its way.

My head and my arms
were not placed
each in a separate plastic bag.
They were firmly attached to my body.

I could move myself without bleeding.
I didn't even have
a stomach ache.

On the kitchen counter there was a coffee maker
a normal coffee maker
in morning light that seeped
in between the flowered curtains.

They needed to be washed
It looked
to be the middle of April.

While the water boiled
the house sounded so empty.

All the ones I had loved

were long dead.