In the Dream

In the Dream

In the dream,
I am in the ocean.
A sliver of moon silvers the water.
It would be quite pretty if I could see it.
But I am in the dark, in the cold,
underneath where secret currents
worry at my hair and limbs.
I tuck my arms and legs up close
and find a remnant of humor
that in this final moment
a fear of sharks and sea monsters remains.
Up there, impossibly far away
where land interrupts this timeless sea,
there is a distant memory of warmth.

In the dream,
I sit in anger, grief and loss,
in the old brown chair.
I shove handfuls of greasy, salty popcorn
I did not want to make
and do not feel like eating
into my mouth and chew and swallow
as some late night cartoon fails to amuse me.
The ghost, when it comes,
glides from our empty bedroom
into our empty son's,
appealing forgiveness, comfort, peace.
I spare its familiar shape one hard glance
and say "Go to hell" as the popcorn hits my mouth.

In the dream,
you do not see me.
You laugh and nuzzle this other woman
who shines for you with a brilliance I cannot match.
I see her.
I read her poetry and hear her music
and wish with agonizing jealousy
that her hair and clothes were mine.
Her sweet kisses captivate your heart.
Her long smooth thighs
twine and lock your soul to hers.
I watch until my heart is broken
and weeping, fall asleep beside you.
She wakes, trapped within the woman I've become.