I woke screaming and youcame to sit next to me. I feltmy eyes were open too wide
+I woke screaming and youcame to sit next to me. I feltmy eyes were open too wide
that I could not shut themfrom the horror movie sittingon your lap in the easy chair
in the dream the other dreamin the living room underthe tree. Why do I feel guilty?
I sit up slowly creaking.I find myself alone buriedin an ocean. Far off
-there is an eagle flyingtoward me. She lands onmy knee and lays an egg.
+there is an eagle flyingtoward me. She lands onmy knee and lays an egg.
I think not this againsomething I’ve neverthought in my life.
[You run through melike rats]rats down an alley.You are in my blood.
+You run through melike rats down an alley.You are in my blood.
You scared me onceremember? Jumped outof the bathroom door.
I fell screaming ontothe linoleum. Did youapologize? Did you need to?
Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harderthan anywhere else I know. It threatens to ripmy body away, like an angel of death, to the stars.
In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forgetits smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for meit rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.
-In a dream, my father is caught by a riptide off-shore.He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’sa line in his memory on the horizon. I can see himswimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight
+In a dream, my father is caught by a riptide off-shore.He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’sa dim line in his memory on the horizon. I can see himswimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight
back to land. I see him as another shipwreck victim,coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.I see him lying there a long time. I see all thisas he tells me the story, years later, the riptide
only a ghost in his memory, I only a child fallingasleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rollsin the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst
-pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinklelike stars above the mountains. I’ll send for itand try to make them, but in the thin air they’llcrumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.
+pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinklelike stars above the mountains. I’ll send for itand try to make them, but at this altitude they’llcrumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.
My head is full of fire, my tongue swollen,pregnant with all the things I should’ve saidbut didn’t. Last night, we met each otherin the dark, remember? You told me time was
-pregnant with all things. I should’ve saidsomething, to draw you out from your placein the dark. Remember, you told me time wasonly an illusion, and memory was only
-something to draw. You, out from your place,I out from mine, that night, I believed in you.Only illusion and memory were one, lyingdown on your couch, through the night you drew
+pregnant with all things. I should’ve saidsomething, to draw you out from your safetyin the dark. Remember, you told me time wasonly an illusion, and memory was only
+something to draw. You, out from your safety,I out from mine, that night, I believed in you.And illusion and memory were one, lyingdown on your couch, through the night you drew
me out from mine. That night, I believed in youwhen you told me you loved me. I laydown on your couch. Through the night, you drewa picture of our future together.
When you told me you loved me, I liedin the dark. Remember, you told me time wasa picture of our future together.My head is full of fire, my tongue swollen.