At a potluck, between lasagne and sips of Korean citron tea, our friends started talking about dreams they had when they were younger. It seems many of our dreams then were suffused with calm, like sheets of rippling or waves on a wide ocean. No restless grasping, just floating, when we were younger. When I had a cough that just wouldn't go away, the doctor gave me a syrup with codeine. Sleep felt thick with strange dreams, unlike when I was younger. The light leaked strange colors. Teeth fell out of my mouth, or I was pursued by snarling dogs— Never felt that kind of urgency when I was younger. When last I looked in the mirror, the skin on my neck and inner thighs seemed looser. Couldn't we be beautiful until we died, like when we were younger?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
