Nightdream
As she often does in the dark, Sarah sleeps beside my
turning mind. A wandering sketch of thought unearths salvation again. All my
worries shrink, shrink. I try to grab them, but now they are too small, not
even pinpoint stars. The sheets blankets pillowcases are only soft extensions
of the darkness, though the room is typically quite real. Like a drug user, I
am betrayed by the black terror of God’s eternity. My hands fly out for little
troubles (bill argument disappointment—anything) but they only find the ancient
braille at the edge. Open to the dark, my fingers feel for the first time words
they signed millennia ago. Back when we dreamed of coming to Earth, and smiled
straight back at our Father’s face.
Now, as if on cue, the
goddess stirs. Inlaid with fire skin and intoxicating human weight, she
descends upon me until I long to be in the presence of my family’s dead. I
wonder, if only vaguely, what I thought real life was supposed to be like. Her
eyes hair fingers transform from daily woman burdened to another part of me, a
holy piece. I become woman and man alone. Our walls—so humbly white and
bare—are the walls of a mansion, a palace, a temple. I know in the morning I
will return to ignorance, so now I let the words escape in even tones: I am this night a god, vested in the burning
gems of all future glory.
No comments:
Post a Comment