ManicDDaily

Draft poem in honor of April, National Poetry Month.

Sparrow Dreams

I dreamt, years ago, that my infant child was a sparrow.
My husband, just last night, dreamt of a huge pooled grill
upon which customers threw raw steaks.
He also dreams of flying.

I rarely remember my dreams now–I don’t know if I can’t
hold onto them, or if I just don’t have them.  But I
dreamt, years ago, that I cupped the small brown bird,
who was my child,
inside my palms.

My husband dreams always, exciting scenarios.  Khaddafi makes
a house call; my husband disarms him while
lecturing on the merits of Debussy.

My mother once led, with great difficulty, a horse
down long dark stairs
only to find at the sweaty stoop
a sign that read, “Elevator For Horses
Only.”  Close to ninety, she still tells
that dream, but the words sometimes change:
“Horses Shouldn’t Take Stairs.”
My husband likes to tell his when he first wakes;
the surface of his sleep-furred eyes glisten
with the fantastical.

I sat holding my softly-feathered child on a bench
of women before sculptured green.  It was
Rockefeller Center, I remember, and that suddenly
I seemed to have put her down, my sparrow child, then
weeping, could not find her.

It was before her birth–when you are pregnant,
you have many dreams–but I knew, when I woke,
that my life was forever different,
that I had been given a fragile, marvelous, chance, a chance
I could not grip tightly (even though it might take flight),
but that I could not bear to lose, not ever.

As always, all rights reserved.

And also, as always, please feel free to let me know comments or suggestions.  This is a draft, and it would be wonderful to have guidance as to how to improve it.