Maybe a Dream

third of 3 poems written for a special public presentation of love and romance, for our city's festival tomorrow

A knock at the door. 2 am.

Hold me, he says.

Hold you? Yes- hold me. Please.

Because, sometimes, even for men

the wind is too bright. It gets bothered

if you need to cry. The sky can be too loud

at midnight. The stars talk too intimately

and the day is too dark, to forget.

Dawn is years away and the sun’s arms

are too short, anyway.

 

So I take his body, his tallness, the breadth

of him, into my reach. A dancer’s back

folded into the arms of a philosopher,

or maybe just an ordinary man’s angles

curled into the space made

by a farm woman’s curves;

and her exquisite inability

to ignore the voice of anti-reason

when it knocks at 2 am. Tears fall a little

on both sides of infinity, tonight.

 

There is a soft spot between the hardness

of the neck, and the back. Every woman

who ever fell in love, with anyone,

knows it. Maybe I touch my lips to that place,

just once. Maybe I dream it.

Drops of salinated water, that I cannot see

flow with greater intensity. They fill a

palm held steady. He breathes into my

open hand, which shines like crystal

in tallow light. The floor slopes

in impossible directions. The bed

is a dangerous place, for me. I fear

that one day, it will demand of me,

a remembrance of dancers. And dances.

Author's Note

translated from my original in Spanish. For a special invitation to present for our city, February 13, 2019. artwork is from an online directory by artist akinom11

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

I am writing a poem titled " a farm woman's curves" just because you wrote it and i want it. Just because your tender reference was so alarming yet so necessary. Poetry is simply a hard thing to think of, let alone write down....You write as beautiful as ever.....dana

[jedi mindtrick]

so crawling, stalking the ghost of your presence so quickly borne unto the past,
i plant myself in the depths of your prints
to see your claw marks punctuate my fingertips,
and lifting my eyes to pierce the scattering of trees, foliage and rock,
i am left to wonder if you ever really faltered here,
and slipping back into darkness,
perhaps to dream . . .
that we are more than one.

Even though I know what I wrote it blends so well I still find myself losing track of where I stopped and you began.
I love this poem...it made me think of "we are more than one." it made me wish I was still writing daily...dancing.