These Dreams Your Children Grow
My mother told me I was born in the night
sky, falling through space like a tiny wailing
comet and for years, you know, I believed
in her. I saw the stars beneath my skin, veins
shimmering milky way heart beating. Older,
I grew suspicious, the sky seemed so far
far away. And though I could taste the moon
on the tip of my tongue it was like a taste
foreign and unaccustomed: spices I’ve never
been able to gain the trust of.
A lover once pressed body into mine, said
your pulse sounds like planets exploding —
so distant and small and unremarkable
for such a tremendous thing.
When I call my mother on the phone, I ask
if she can tell me what the sky looked
like when I was born and she says: it was
the color of your eyes, deep as ocean dark.
And once upon a time, I had a dream
I was drowning and no one heard me
screaming and the water filled my lungs
and the pressure was too great and the sky
was inside out and my mother woke me
up, told me to study the night.
Outside my window, the sky
was filled with light, thousands of stars
calling me home or telling me to stay.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.