Last night I dreamt of fig leaves
& cold weather.
I’ve had this dream 11 nights
in a row.
There are thorn brambles & pine trees
& Ariana Grande’s “Winter Things”
plays on repeat. Like it’s the soundtrack
of the dream or something. It’s weird.
It’s early morning.
There’s a little fog.
I struggle to maintain my sense
I try to pick a fig but it’s too difficult
to reach. I’m short &
the branches don’t bend
like they used to.
The scene shifts: I’m in a field of ice
beneath a starry sky.
I take sinew & a bone needle &
sew me to you. But we
don’t hold together; we never
do for very long so I start again.
Stitching carefully. Lacing your fingers
with mine so we can keep each other
steady on the ice.
At least for today.
The scene shifts: memories roll by
like trains on the track.
The name of a sad old hymn my grandmother played on the piano once.
The smell of Brunswick Stew & Christmas trees.
Our order wrong but us eating it anyway.
Pecans raining from the sky.
A prayer in a hospital waiting room.
Watermelon trucks at night.
The worst movie I’ve ever seen.
Lemonade: red clay: Georgia heat.
The morning my niece was born.
The scene shifts: I see the city at night
& all its ghosts.
I question the old man on the corner, curious
to know if I am one.
He points to the bus stop, sings “rainy days
smell like the moon,” while mist
shifts & shimmies over my forehead;
the light goes out.
I wake up. It is morning.
I kick off the sheets & start.
Poem 19 of 30