Living the Dream

For what am I being forgiven this morning
that the moon would appear fed-faced on the horizon?
Was my dream too desperate during the night,
too dear, too full of deep dark deeds
that she should see evidence of it
and blood seep to her cheeks, even
to her hairline?

Perhaps it is a hot flash that has flushed her,
crept up on her the moment she is ready to retire,
and she is showing me that every woman is she and Me
and that the hormones run rampant upon earth and sky
to remind us that we are Women; less fertile, perhaps,
but still creative courses through our bodies
so that we might be stirred to make more of ourselves.

What has she seen of the night that scalds her?
I should know. I should be aware of what we’ve done,
or thought, or dreamt upon the cold sheets of sweated cotton.
Has she shared her deepest secret to me and I did not listen
and now have missed the opportunity for intimacy?

Come, mother, I have need to know, not just that you forgive,
but for what reason so I do not repeat that which makes you
hide your face from me in pink preparation for repose.

Tags: Poems //