by Cynthia Zarin
Issue no. 193 (Summer 2010)
No one but lovers and children tell their dreams:
not fish, nearer fowl, where does that leave me—
bantam in the barnyard, pecking for mash.
Bleak lovebirds, our nests are spangled with remorse
and love; for us the order out of kilter:
what we love, we burn. In the dream, Devon,
Kentisbeare, winter, but the lawns still
green, the stone church black with wet against
the brackish sky, the mourners quickly off
in twos and threes—abashed at talking yet
they still went on. I was the dreamer—dead,
I had to choose. The scene tilted. The emerald
air was now the scuffed mill’s cuckoo cloud.
Twice shy. I’d never left except with you.