the stories that made me
Don’t ask me
how I found out
that every dream
ever dreamt
becomes a star
in the night sky,
but I will tell you
a secret:
Look!
The North Star
was the first dream ever,
when god himself
saw you
in his sleep
then made
the entire universe
just for you.
Last night I dreamt
that every time
you ran a brush
through a child’s hair
it would play a musical note.
All the neighbors
would get up early,
open their windows,
and sip their coffee
to the symphony
of getting ready for school.
And everyone
was a morning person.
Remember when
every day
was a new one,
the next moment
was just the rest
of right now,
and the passing
hours slipped
quietly into the past
when we weren’t looking?
Some days
we conquered swings
and slides,
other days we lost
to thunder,
and no one
was keeping score.
Come whisper
gibberish in my ear.
There’s nothing else
I would
rather
hear. Touch
my face
so my skin
can know
it has nowhere
else to go but you. Kiss
my mouth
till I can’t tell
who’s who.
Calm me down,
hold my hand
and walk me
out of here;
you know all the paths,
all the alleys, all the ways.
Help me.
I haven’t left
my mind in days.
If
every time
you said my name
I could pluck it
from the air
like an amber bead,
I would collect
enough of them
to make a rosary
so I can pray
to the one
who gave you voice.
I’m on a train
speeding through
the countryside
as a thunderstorm
rages outside
in the fields.
In the distance
rain clouds gather
like a group
of bullies
on the schoolyard.
The rain
taps the trees
in a game of tag.
I’m thinking
about God.
Remember
that night
when the blackout
threw our neighborhood
into darkness?
We opened our windows
and shouted to each other
from across the street.
That night
I asked you
what you’re afraid of most,
and you said
“A sky
with no birds
in it.”
And then the morning came.
And then the birds.