The Fulfillment Of Wishes In Dreams

by Marita Dancy

“... . In the room

left by her, he
cannot see himself
as in a mirror, as
a feeling of reflection.
He thinks he thinks,
of something else.”
-Robert Creeley
A walk would be nice, you said, starting off,
leaving the rest in bed.
The meadow had grown over
to preserve a dead elephant—
the little left of the world.
You always wanted the pronominal moment
to end,   you said,
so I admitted, finally,
to wanting to be more than one.
       After years of dismissing bones
for photographs kept under the bed,
       I tried growing myself
over you, by telling you
to lie perfectly still
while spreading my arms for the wind to stretch.
If I told myself you were lying
there, underneath the bed,
  could I find your bones?
Or would I miss the photographs,
which did not belong
on the wall and did not belong under the bed?
I wanted the photographs to grow
    over my eyes.
Back in the meadow, you said you were   tired of lying
  still on the ground.
I am not finished, I said.
You breathed slowly, turning your head—
my fingers remain the same lengths.
Growing takes years,           you said,
but you are wrong—                the wind swells as we speak—
   growing impatience
incites me to dreams of rock being
     bones which do not disintegrate
when touched.
     Am I still making sense?
I want you. A waxing moon appears to be falling
     out of its pants
while hanging low late
into dawn. Something is not beautiful
      when seen by everybody, yet I
long for naked being
      light on my skin.
You disagreed with,     look at me. Slowly,
I must lift my budding body to exhume
you from the meadow. I pry the lids
for the glass hiding there
to see myself squinting in
the room of your eye.
         I do not know if you are more or less
   indelible in this moment
for I know that by opening eyes I will call all
of this a dream.