My mother dreams of
walking the mausoleum’s corridor
searching for her name
among the eye-level inscription plates
petite crypts
holding entombed breasts.
It’s been more than 30 years since
the era of battling early stage breast cancer
with radical mastectomy –
without reconstruction.
Still she dreams of being
reunited, made whole.
My lover dreams of flying
lifting off and soaring with birds
freedom that eludes him
with feet on the ground
gravity tethering
preventing his soul from soaring with God.
Another dreamt of equipment malfunctions
the Glock 22 that wouldn’t fire
the shell stuck in the barrel of the 12-gauge Remington
a missing ammunition clip for his AR-15’s second round
he’d awaken bewildered by failure
manhood primed for violence
he’d fire at will
throughout daylit skirmishes
til the next night’s reverie.
My friend dreamt of revenge
her attacker repeating his assault
the hired handyman opening the apartment
with his key
binding her
the ending slightly different each night –
the attacker scared off
or fatally wounded
ever-changing rescuers
vague and faceless
sometimes showing up too late
so she woke herself up
shook him off.
He never penetrated her again.
Some see lovers in their dreams.
I open to you in somnolence.
But you don’t come to me that way.
You come unbidden in every poem
even those that trick me into believing
they are about something truer
than unrequited love
larger
than the haunting of one love’s legacy.
I dream wide awake
at the keyboard.
You are what recurs
my eternal return
the self-similar form you take
on the page
forever elusive
formed from equal parts you and who I write you to be.
You, whose song is in the same key as mine
whose rhythm of joy
delight in dance
hunger for love
suited me more than any who’ve lingered.
Our time for loving one another
lives in memory’s intangible mist
remembered differently
threads woven in two distinct stories
mine that repeats
yours I’ll never hear.
I search again and again for lost parts
not just breast, which of course you took,
making me numb to all other hands,
but heart, lungs, satiety in my belly.
I wrastle against the chains that keep me bound to place
flail when strategies and ideas fail me
rail with self-violence
push you away again and again
even though you are already gone
impenetrable to real flesh and blood others.
Alas, we cannot blame the muse.
Leonardo sketched mere hands
internal organs
anything
as many times as he could
lured repeatedly by cadavers and a looking glass.
Human body was his obsession.
Monet painted his true mistress – water lilies – 250 times
over 30 years
far more than his beloved Camille
or Alice Hoschedé.
Emily Dickenson returned repeatedly to Death;
Thoreau to the need to return to nature.
This visitation will not be your last.
I awaken from the trance
shake off the sting
that I cannot share this with you.
Good night, my Muse.
I await your return.