WHAT I MIGHT SAY AFTER WAKING
"...and it was Lust the vulture, not Love, the bird of Paradise..."
-Orlando, Virginia Woolf
- Prelude -
Spoken to a photograph of "You" (Teeth Clenched at First, Shaken)
I did not want to dream you
during orange, steely night.
I say not want, but I did
and now my action drop-cloths
my intent and what I count
on ten bony digits makes
no less than ten and no more
than what I dreamt. I saw you.
- II. -
Whispered to "Your Wife"
(While Standing Behind Her)
Him, quickly. He never spoke
of you. His dun eyes clouded,
grew fat with droplets, and burst
when I left the room. With me
he played tiger pounce, mink musk,
certainly little lady,
any time. He may have meant
other words like mistake, was
and not us because I love her and knew her first. Courage
came to him stingily.
Alone, at last, I would ruffle
through drawers of old photographs
where I learned your eyes and face.
- III. -
Persuasively to "Loyal Stranger" (Reach for Her Hands on "Not Him")
Your fairytale hair belongs
to the girl who would not take
loving treason. My dream keeps
you and not him in my bed
self, bed body, pillow heart,
the place where sleeping pins still
prick and draw dreams in my blood.
- IV. -
To "Your Wife"
(Both Women Wear Sunglasses)
Do you see the birds salute
us in turn? The first, hawkish,
flies to our merried faces and gives feathery blessings
while the second flaps twig-wings
with sprigs of green at the tips,
a Vegetaria fowl.
Two dream creatures salute us.
Double-omen, they see you too. I shudder to know you.
