Last Night's Reverie

Last Night’s Reverie

(“Naaman walked down to the Jordan; he waded out into the water and stooped down in it seven times, just as Elisha had told him. Right away, he was cured, and his skin became as smooth as a child’s.” 2 Kings 5:14)

I know you said your dreams never live up to their billing,
promising you neon and pastels well into October;
I heard you describe the him and the her who stroked your forehead
at just the right time.

I know you awoke with no hand on your brow,
I know you remembered only the introduction to
words that spun silk around the span from your hands
to the offers of help.
By the time the last act opened, the moments just before
your eyes made it morning,
the offer was withheld and someone was pulling you from behind,
grabbing the loop on the back of your favorite denim jacket.

Waiting to understand the meaning of the dream,
I remember you couldn’t decide to cry or arise to
wash your face. So you wasted the morning (your words, not mine)
on the couch and holding last night’s dream
wishing the hand that touched your nighttime would
knock on the door and offer something more than
you’ve been waiting inside and outside for.

I know you think it’s creased and masked,
a latex buffoon of who you used to be. A caricature
with a bigger nose and open pores, while you spent your morning
wishing for the relief that dreams recited like
serenades on a back porch summer.

So here are words to tell you, after last night’s reverie,
I am here, always; late or early, smooth or wrinkle,
some or every; to say or silent the time when
waking seems sadder than last night’s dream.