May 26, 2009 § 6 Comments






The alarm startles me into wakefulness and
I remember: in the dream we’re sitting at the kitchen table,
talking about whether or not to resume
our marriage. I decide (as I always do in this unforgiving dream,
even at this two-decade junction when she is grown and gone),
that it is in her best interest for me to return.
And as I do, his face fills with rage and he flings something indefinable
(is it a coffee cup? I think it is) at my head.
I duck and flee the dream, back to my dusky dim room
and hollowed bed. I remember why I left and then the
grey-haired, soft-voiced woman with chachkas and bookshelves
and stories about animus and anima, the iridescent scarab,
the collective unconscious. Which is he, this man who inhabits my
dreams? Is he himself or is he my shadow self? I shift, feeling
morning ache in the wings of my lower back, and he/me/we vanish
into the breaking day.


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