to die at sunrise in a dream with no curtains
where all colors but one have disappeared
and a shadow still warm from the night
drifts away from the bed

where a woman humming before the mirror
disentangles the young sun from the honey
of her hair and sends it up to the sky
like an orange-breasted falcon and
the room darkens and the horn
comb drops on the carpet

where a slim-winged julia wakes up among the impatiens
to a landscape of saffron and tangerine merging
into a moist horizon and summons the monarchs
by a sun salutation dance and the swarm flies
to the one-lane-road-ahead sign and
makes for the growing tower

and when the pilgrims reach the glow
at the top of the amber tower
the dream ends

Previously published in New Mexico Poetry Review and Dream Diary (Virtual Artists Collective, 2013).

My Faraway Daughter,

A good thing you’ve decided to write the story of your life
and to start with your first winter. What was it like?
you ask. I remember

I’d wake up at five and stare at the nightlight. I’d study
the mist of my breath, feel the formidable cold
of the stove.
Not a stove – a block of black ice that has invaded us
through the chimney, an informer, ensconced in a dark
overcoat, writing down the colors of dreams.
A stove so like the stocky man who took away your father
for owning a degenerate capitalist record:
Elvis’ Christmas Album.
This happened on a strangely warm day, like spring:
December 13, 1957.
Then temperatures dropped by 60 degrees.

Cloaked in a blanket, I’d descend to the basement.
Back with a bucket of coal. Feed the stove.
But the matches would break. Some would just smoke
without flame.
Finally, the damp, unread newspaper caught fire.
The splinters screamed but didn’t wake you up.
Only when the fire began to hum
your gray eyes opened huge
to the stove’s red riot, its round lid jumping up.

I’d extract you from Grandma’s embroidered coverlets
warm and wet. The day began
with your tiny, sharp fingernails on my swollen breast.
The robust certainty of your lips: you will not starve.
Your bottom – washed, dried, talcumed, kissed
almost sitting on a cloth nappy warmed by the stove.
Your toothless grin. My vow to spare you
true stories, false friends, and the wearing of black.

As the day unbundled its face, I’d go about my chores
thinking up answers to the questions
you’ll start asking soon
after you eat from another tree.

Will write again.

Love,
Mom