Oven Dreams

brown wrinkled and crusty,
row upon row, neatly placed in order.
little potatoes to the back,
the larger ones in the front two rows

the oven is dark, no illumination.
time has cooled the burning.
I reach my hand to the far right corner
unafraid, I pull her out.

biting in and breaking the old tough skin,
mmmm, delicious, I say
my long-deceased father at my side
says, stop, don’t do that!

each dream character, says Jung, is the dreamer
my tattela,* my protector, would never return
but I, brave woman, can make my own path

*father