We were speaking of dreams the other day and since I’d written about my “best” publication, I thought I’d copy out the actual poem. I’m also taking a two-week workshop and will have to devote time to that rather than my ramblings.It was written under an early pen name. (Kalliope, Volume 7, No. 2)
In a dream I was taught by touching the walls of a cave
I would turn to stone,
not be noticed by the armies of the night.
Watching brown-shirted boys
wrap around blue-bloused girls,
blowing hot breath in their tangled hair,
I feel my fingers claw the clay.
I am sixteen.
we eat Tandoori chicken
twine fingers to cislunar violins.
Intermezzo harp resonates
deep space darkness of the heart.
He licks saffron from my lips.
Natant, I become the liquid sky.
I am twenty one.
In the distance he is standing
silhouetted against brush blue hills.
I call and he runs towards the scarlet sun.
He is a rabbit hopping through reeds,
he is a bramble bush blowing down the fence row.
He tumbles and flies, tumbles and flies.
I am twenty four.