I had a disturbing dream about a turkey – and now Christmas is ruined
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes rethinks what should be on the menu on 25 December after her subconscious warns her of what (and what not) to gobble...
THE NO-TURKEY DINNER
A whole month ahead of Christmas I had the turkey dream;
A dream of un-baked ideas, of being unable to find solutions
To problems, of attempting to cook a turkey and failing.
Was the oven not hot enough? Was a three-hour cooking time
Not long enough? Should I have pierced the turkey with a skewer
To heat it through? Because when I presented it to my beloved,
Tripping at the rug-edge so the turkey escaped its tin foil and tipped
Nakedly into his lap, head and feet still attached, rubbery as a toy,
It was still alive. Grasping its fat-legged, plucked and fleshy body,
I felt the stir of blood and muscle beneath its clammy skin. It raised its head,
Gasping, its wattle sagging, its eyes begging for life. I wondered
If I should put it in the fridge where maybe, by tomorrow, my dream
Would have resolved itself and the turkey would be dead and ready
For another toasting and the knife. But I set it free to roam, and now
I have it at my heels, waiting to be fed, hoping for a knitted coat until
Its plumage grows. It doesn’t speak, just follows me around my home. I think
It needs the companionship of friends. I sigh at its mounds of grieving meat
And know there is no way this Christmas that I’ll eat
A turkey roast. Planning ahead, I’ll cook some pork instead.
Unless I have the pig dream…