by Stazja McFadyen

When night was made of paper walls
I took to listening, wandering what
those old men talked about in their snoring
conversations that wafted along
the halls to wake me,
a child who wondered at everything.

I wondered if I was the only one
who knew about the magic step
where my spirit went at night, to fly.
It was always the third step I left from
to visit places in the sky.

I told my older brother about the step.
He knew exactly what I meant
and traded useful information
if ever I was chased through caves
by nightmare skeletons.

In all the nights we made escapes
from bodies and dreams gone bad,
in all those nights, not once did I encounter
snoring old men who knew
about flying through paper walls.