Dream you shared a dream with dream me —
there was no white picket fence,
but there was a house,
a small house with two porches.
Inside, there were only 3 rooms,
including the bedroom and bathroom.
You said I insisted on us having a round
dining table, like the knights.
Yet, it was almost always ovular, 1 or 2
extra leaves stuck into the middle
to fit your family.
Your grandmother taught me southern cooking,
and I taught her what not to do when baking.
She and I would garden together,
and you said I would make bouquets of vegetables
to bring to the neighbors.
Sometimes, you said,
I would climb out the bedroom window
to greet the sun, running
across the open field, barefoot.
I would stand, head raised to the sky —
a silhouette in the bright morning.
In those moments,
you would watch, gingerly
getting up from our shared bed
to stand at the window.
Always, you said, ready to run after me
if my knees gave way and I collapsed
in the shining grass.
You worried about that,
never knowing if my desire to be consumed
by light would actually kill me.
Sometimes though, you would run to me anyways,
and I would be so engrossed I wouldn’t hear you.
You ventured it was because I was listening
to another world, one quieter than ours.
You would come up, nevertheless, and
put your hand around my waist,
drawing me back to our world.
Your parents never understood this ritual,
seeing us from their kitchen window
as the coffee brewed,
but they did see love.
So It Goes 