things you wear in my dreams

i. sunlight

in the centre of a stone circle 

stand six empty thrones.

each as ancient as the next,

each with carved notches 

in the grain of the wood.

light filters in through black glass,

golden hands reaching for dark, dark arms;

dust and grain, gold and brown, all as one,

all warm, all aglow, all flaming pale.

you are the only thing alive in this room.

the flock of birds roosting in the rafters

has long since fled now, leaving

in shock at your arrival as only birds do.

the insects scurry beneath your feet

into invisible cracks in the stone,

seeking the deep places of the earth,

seeking rock and mud and dark and rot

rather than staying to see this light you bring.

your breath is the only thing that disturbs the dust motes.

nothing else stirs, nothing else moves,

it’s you, it’s you, nothing but you,

and i wake up every morning

and in the night i sleep again 

and i dream of terrible sunlight.

ii. seashells

every pale tile, eggshell white and

smooth as anything ever was,

perfectly rectangular, gleaming—

i pick it up, nails digging in,

and turn it over.

i flip the tiles, for days, months,

and finally, i see her.

the blackest hair i have ever seen,

and the brightest eyes i have never seen;

she sits in her dress made of seashells

on her throne made of seashells,

palest ivory on the dark brown of her skin.

she is the abalone princess, 

and i have spent a lifetime

looking for her.

she comes to me now, finally,

smiling. 

(when she smiles,

i forget who you are.

when she smiles, you’re just you again,

when she smiles, it’s all okay again.

when she smiles, i smile back at her.)

iii. smoke

you’re the only one, you tell me,

eyes on the ceiling and smoke in your mouth.

you know?

(i do know. i’ve always known,

i’ve done nothing but know and know,

but i don’t tell you that.

i don’t tell you a lot of things.)

you laugh too loud and smile too little,

and i’m scared of what i see in your eyes.

i’m scared of girls like you and girls like me,

and i’m scared of everything.

but here, now, i don’t have to think.

here now i follow the smoke

with my eyes and say nothing.

here now i don’t have to touch you

and here now you don’t look at me.

here—now—i’m not scared anymore.

iv. lightning

the city hums in the night,

millions breathing and singing and sleeping,

lights in the sky shining bright

until they aren’t.

the city hums and goes on humming

until one night it isn’t.

the air is dry and the sky is black

and i’m looking now

for you.

in this dream your hair is made of lightning.

in this dream i can’t touch you.

in this dream we’re not real, and we’re floating

with your fists clenched and your eyes shut,

in this dream you’re flying,

and i’m holding on.

(Art: Marine, Storm Sea, 1911, by Robert Henri)

 

The Abalone Princess is from a dream I really did have. I was reading a poem, in the dream, and I had to overturn tiles to uncover a certain part of the poem—the act of uncovering it being part of the poem too, the poetic experience—and I finally saw her, the Princess in the image, smiling back at me. I'm not sure if she was part of the poem too.

"Terrible sunlight" is from The Shrine/An Argument by Fleet Foxes. The recurring "in this dream" thing was lifted from something but I'm not sure what. Either a Richard Siken poem, or something my friend wrote. Oops.