Three Words

It's a dream of course; or maybe it only feels 
like a dream. Maybe there are walls and corridors 
of apartments painted dull brown. There is a woman 
standing in the middle of the room in an orange
dress. At her throat is a jewel that can't be named, 
but it winks from between two butterfly wings.
There's a green cake stand on the table, surrounded
by jade green vines. Where's the man who was supposed
to hold her hand, closed around the handle of a knife? 
They should slice into layers of pale yellow crumb iced 
with cream. We are all waiting; we are the ones with
open mouths. Doves flutter in a panic close to the ceiling, 
their feet finally free of satin ribbon. But I can't wait. 
I'm walking into a street filled with puddles, on the arm
of a man who carries my one piece of luggage as if 
it were a basket of reeds. We cross the road to get 
to a station where a bus or a train is waiting to carry
me away. The air is warm. On tiptoe I mouth three 
words into his ear. Can you imagine what they were?