In Days And Dreams

by A. Marie

Follow, and step, and step,
the stepwells of India, imagine the high sun

arcing upon the bare back of an old god, a woman
peeling off the strips of yellow light, and eating them
like pieces of an orange.

That’s a vision, that comes and goes, like
the memory of my grandmother, a tall castle I built
out of legos, my first peering through a telescope
and watching Jupiter’s moons cross his face like birds.

I, reading Rūmī, and then I read Lynda Hull. I think I use to
never read, but would merely absorb the hearts
of others, and take their vigorously pulsing organs on adventures.

I have seen uncovered hearts. They give no tiny beats, but
spasm, roll and twitch and writhe as though an animal
were about to burst free from an egg.

Step, and look, and then so step;
that is my rhythm. Sometimes I am following dreams.

What white beams and columns I have walked under, towers
I have craned my neck to touch, their tops I reach
into the sky, I put my fingertip on, like a little pink hat.

So I keep on reading,
keep on watching people pretend to die on television,
thinking about how the Nabateans used to worship a winged lioness,
how they carved temples out of the desert cliffs, and crossed
the Naqab carrying baskets of incense and gold.

Once I forget a daydream, I wonder where it goes.
If somewhere it has set up camp, weathering out its last days.

I write riddles, try to fold my clothes, play music
that causes me to start popping my hips
as though I have no say in the matter. I feel it in my chest,

start to picture a man, then a woman, then a man,
then a woman, swinging me around, the drums pounding.

A bonfire, the sky indigo, lit with stars.

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