Dreams in April
· The Atlantic
My dream is to breathe the Mediterranean air.
My dream is to dance on the dinner table,
is to melt into sound, is a never-ending chase.
Follow the spiral, my dream says, because a place
is also a memory where all the shadows are white.
My dreams look like homesickness, like peeling
oranges on a hot summer day in my grandpa’s
backyard, except in the dream he is still alive
and the ocean is still blue. The moment I know
I am able to fly is when I see the tree, the leaves
swaying, and I jump. Why do I dream of you?
Why do I dream in six languages but in each
one there are suns floating in a midnight sky?
There are three doors named Desire. There is
one olive tree full of silver fruit. Write the love,
my dream says. I put my memories in a jar.
I confess, my secrets glowing like bones on
black paper. I dream that everything is romantic,
even the ghost in my throat. I dream fearless
and hopeful and am woken by kisses in a house of
love and flowers. It isn’t a dream anymore. I pull
the quiet drawing of a cabin through the frame,
open the door, and there you are, dreaming of me.
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