Hands
In the dream I woke up hearing two voices:
my father and I were speaking --
I had grown older and he with me,
rather than the way it turned out. As I rose
from the bed, the bed was empty and ice clear.
But he was there, a cold breath, turning to me,
holding something like fire, and his touch --
I keep touching,
I keep touching --
as if my hands being touched could become
fire too. And then the conversation died.
"Remember what I said," and then he was gone.
I wanted to speak, but I had no tongue
and no touch and no fire. I wake up now
some mornings,
touching,
touching,
pressing my hands into the voice in the bed,
and I rise reaching towards him,
the tongue of my hands in my head.
"I will, I will," I said.
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Author's Note
A dream can produce new work; if you catch it quickly enough.
They never let go. This catches it. *
This feels so real it could only come out of a dream. *
Not only do dreams produce work, they produce poems that are breathtaking.*
Somehow this dream was caught in your words. A sort of elemental sign language happening here. Very affecting.
Loss leaves its tangible mark before it evaporates becoming memory. Very evocative.
Very well written. It's hard to capture the nuances of dreams but you've done it here. Excellent. *
I wanted to speak, but I had no tongue/and no touch and no fire. I wake up now/ some mornings,/ touching, /touching, ...
***. Top notch.
pressing my hands into the voice in the bed... *
The operations of memory and imagination.
I read this a while back, when Amanda Harris included it in her Editor's Eye selection. And I wrote then that it sticks with me - and it does. Came back today to read again. I think it's so well shaded, yet it leaves a sharp feeling in the reader's gut. Nicely done.
*
Dreams..."real" life... so connected...and your poem is so lyrical, suggestive, haunting in a lovely way. Like an elemental sculpture. And thanks also to Amanda for selecting it in her Editor's Eye. Like Michelle Elvy, I read it then, and again now. *
Indescribably grand.