The Burn

As some of you know, my creative urge has been extinguished for about a week. Since I operate in something akin to dog years, for me that's a long time. But I quite literally dreamt this one up, about an hour ago. Not in lines, but then, dreams are their own special poetry.

In my dream, there was blood...

Bright red, like words you can't take back.

It was woman's blood, that routine and slightly shameful miracle,

And it was mine.

That's how I know it was a dream--

If I bled now

It could only be tears,

Colorless and common as salt.

In my dream, I'd been with someone else...

Someone nicer than you, probably,

But when I put my mouth to her in that familiar prayer, she was calm as a Madonna,

And so I came back here to you.

You had ordered breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes drowned in butter

--so unhealthy and so sweetly delicious--

And though you'd clearly sated yourself while I was away,

It was the sort of easy, loving gesture you're so talented at

When your heart is generous and your claws are sheathed.

In my dream, I wanted to tell you

--as I trailed along after Your Majesty in the way that believers must do--

That I was so glad to be back with you...

That it felt like coming home, even if the house is on fire,

Even if nothing can be saved,

Even if the next kiss has to be the last.

When I woke up,

On cool white sheets in the silent night,

I knew it would be all right;

I knew why unrepentant witches smile through the smoke with their hair on fire;

Despite blood, belief, sweetness and loss,

I'd seen the face I love

And the burn in my bones was back.

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