Master -

I've thought of you this morning - though coffee has spilled -

the dog woke me in the dark.

It's late morning - there - and must be beautiful - 

though the flowers there - neglected -

to tell you - 

Perhaps the light is thin?

What are you doing, sir? Please to tell your heart -

the keeper -

as she pleases -

won't you tell me how you do?

Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

 

The banana trees were in bloom,

their broad leaves just beginning

to split and curl.

Dozens of tropical birds

the size of condors

with bright blue plumage

and hooked bills

perched together in a leafless tree.

 

Then you appeared, in a nightgown

too sheer for modesty.

The morning light penetrated

cotton, kissed your pale flesh,

and you spread seed

for the strange birds.

 

A cavatina of Mozart’s played—

first from your stereo, then from the sky itself—

(the girl in the song sings

I have lost it! Where is it?)

and the birds began to swoop.

They were molting, and you stopped throwing

seed and picked up a long blue contour feather.

Blood soaked the quill like ink.

This frightened you, and you ran into the house.

 

Oh, where is it? Where is it?

You looked out the windows to see a rush

of blue and red. The birds blocked sky,

beat their wings against the door for entrance.

You thought only of your dog,

and tucked her, murmuring endearments,

into the linen closet.

 

The cerulean sky calmed.

You, charming girl in white, opened the door

and peeked—the birds had flown away, or disappeared.

Laughing, you ran into the grass,

noticing only then there was no green:

carpeting the ground instead were finches,

sparrows, thrushes, their bodies

twisted, broken, with their blood,

still warm, and feathers, on your feet.

 

More Dreams

More vivid dreams. I'm sitting here, trying to reimagine them to type out, and they're already fading away. Though disjointed, I'll tell the dream in the order I remember it.

I sat in a paneled room with my father. I was dressed in mourning black--a dress from the 1850s, like Emily Dickinson wore in her deguerrotype, with a cinched waist, full skirt, and those bell-shaped oversleeves that cut off mid-arm--beneath them was a white linen sleeve.

Anyhow, I sat demurely in this place--a restaurant--and noticed a woman dressed much like me. She asked me if I had read the obituary of her child. I said no. She told me her baby girl had just died suddenly, that the only thing they could figure was a sudden brain fever, because one day she was fine and the next day she was dead. I felt sorry for her.

Through memory, I know without there being a story line that I'm in mourning for this woman's son. We'd been engaged, but he has died at war (civil war, I guess).  Months after his death, I begin clearing away the things I had of his, and found a box I hadn't opened, with a letter inside. It was from HIS brother, declaring his love for me. 

I remember his name--Robert Browning--though I'm not clear whether he was THE poet or just a poet. He was handsome and young. Though I didn't feel I could tell him I welcomed his affection without betraying the memory of his brother, I wanted to, so much.

Unfortunately, his father had pressed him into marriage for money, and because he believed I had ignored his letter, he had married this girl. Seeing no honest future for our love, I accepted the suit of one Rhett Butler. He was vital and handsome--I grew to love him more than Robert, but couldn't see it.

The war came--there were explosions, flashes of light--and we knew we had to evacuate. A doctor who had a grudge against Robert had pressed pills on me filled with poison, told me it was a quick death. I thought about giving all of us these pills--escaping the world. We drove together--Robert and his wife in the back seat, Rhett and me in the front. Before we drove, a soldier from the enemy poured vodka on the car-carpet and said he was going to blow us up. I gave my best Southern smile and pleaded with him. I asked Rhett if we were going to die. He said no, and gave me a shotglass filled with vodka. I drank a few of them, then positioned myself to drive. I remember being in that same black dress, and how heavy my skirts were. I had these buttoned boots on and it took a lot of effort to get my legs where I wanted them to be.

We stopped for a break and Robert offers us drinks. I seem him break open a pill--the same kind I have, the poison--and realize he's betraying us. Rhett sees it too. He throws Robert out of the car--I beg him not to hurt him--and I take the pill and see that inside is not poison, but rubies. He's smuggling rubies out--deceitful, but no betrayal. Still, I through their things out and toss the rubies into the driveway. "Search for them," I said.

Rhett comforts me--he knows how I loved Robert--as I sob and reverse and drive off. Rhett and I stay away for years--I think Mexico--when I come back, I hear the story of how Robert's wife had gone mad after we'd gone, and how he became a hermit. Then, not myself anymore but watching the story, I hear how my story ends--how I lose two children after childbirth and die after losing the second is too much to bear. 

Dreams

I had the most vivid dreams last night, and they were so sweet. I'd forgotten how full of verisimilitude (word of the day) dreams can be--how they can echo real emotion so that when you wake you forget for a minute that you have another life--your real life--and the dream was the lie. And the thing you'd learned to cherish in your dream wasn't yours, or didn't exist. And you're heartbroken for a second, then get up and brush your teeth.
I dreamed I wanted to have a baby and had decided on a timeline to procure one (the natural way). I loved someone I've loved before and he loved me. He visited me and I knew he loved me--but he had another life he could not abandon. So I cried, then cried some more. He cried too.
Another man enters--I agree to ex-patriate for him. My new skyline is beautiful--a city surrounded by mountains and green. I run across a skyscraper rooftop and bound into his arms. He gives me an emerald hatpin and kisses me.
And then there was the baby. Just flashes of a face, of a feeling before he comes. It was sweet. It was hard to lose even the dream of him. Of them both.

Can it really be six-thirty?

You would think that a person would eventually fall asleep while lying in the dark, nice and incubated from the cold (snuggling under a blanket neither too thick nor too thin). But it hasn't happened for me, not since I woke up two hours ago. Blasted dog who is now lying outside of my bedroom door, waiting patiently for me to open the door and let her in. In about fifteen minutes, she'll lose her patience and begin pawing. Though her paws are more like punches.
I'm dreaming of scrambled eggs right now. With butter in them. And toast. Glorious breakfast food. She who is about to die salutes you.
(Note: I'm about to die only in the sense that I am mortal and thus am dying. But I won't think about that deeply right now, here in the dark, before the sun has made any headway.)
The birds still sing--they'll go on singing--and that's a comfort.
I can't make many of my dreams reality--I have no money for a MacBook--but I can make scrambled eggs. Which I shall presently do.
Ah, my cue. Cleo is knocking.