This is a reprint of one of my haibuns that appeared in Unbroken Journal in 2015. A haibun is a combination of a prose poem and a haiku.

Grandma crafted a feathered hanging to help me sleep. She called it a dreamcatcher.

—

Insomnia haunted me, transformed me into a zombie with sallow face and bloodshot eyes. Grandma crafted a feathered hanging, her gnarled fingers fashioning knots on a hoop of willow. She said it would help me sleep, that it would only allow good dreams through, that it would capture bad thoughts. When the morning sun stroked my window and shone on the trapped terrors, it would burn them and banish them to oblivion. She called it a dreamcatcher. Every night, it fluttered and flitted in my window, locking away nightmares in its intricate web of laced leather and fibrous sinew. The wind waltzed with it, whirled it, whipped it about, and whispered through the curtains that I was safe. It promised that the demons of night would not disturb my repose. I slumbered and smiled, safe from fears and phantoms and nameless perils that skulk in the shadows. Then, one dark night in November when the moon loomed large, the dreamcatcher swelled and burst, scattering its denizens like shards of obsidian over covers and carpet, puffing fragmented feathers onto my face. I gasped in dismay.

Understanding dawns:
Morning sun never touches
my bedroom window.