As if he means no harm, walking into the dream room, my childhood. He
seems to know it well and steps between these single beds of memory,
sure and faceless. I try to speak the question or unveil the name in
his absent eyes but at my sound he vanishes, the stairs are silent, and
thin black air. One night he stood still under the skylight, huge as a
door, but more often he has wandered the hallway or the foot of this
wider bed. He is called by a tight band beating, irregular, across my
ribs, hears my brain’s low tide lapping the moon. A year ago he was
tall and thin, a sheaf of flowers clasped below his heavy head. He
reached down but could not touch me. I lay there calling. For three
days after he stalked the semi-circle, refusing to leave the night. All
he wanted was a place for his flowers, a low place across my breath.
Tonight he’s brought the past into my room, the shuffled rhythms a
heart like mine hurries onto the only future sure to pass. He has
stepped between shadows, sure as solid, as winter dark. If he speaks I
will vow to nothing, leaving the air open for retrieval, sirens and the
blood orange dawn.

Jill Jones