I have a selfish dream
It wavers—iridescent, fishlike
Cold stone and sharp like the beak of a bird of prey
It cuts me in the ribs
I hold it close and sigh
I wouldn’t replace it
It’s a part of me
Mine, completely
More a part of me than my beating heart
Than my moon-white fingers
I own the smell of iron on my skin
For my dream is a dagger I hold close and croon to
Yes, my selfish dream is honest
My last hope was wooden
I shook it and it rattled
The sound wore thin until the silence expanded
Like hot water on my eyes
It burned and dissolved
Dashed to pieces by insubstantial silken thoughts
The seed of a new vision was planted instead
Its roots are rusted anchors
Which change the color of its flowers’ petals
It grows, stretches, and reaches greedily
I let it take sustenance from my parched mouth
Life from a weak heart
Until the day when I may close my fist around its life
As with an iron gauntlet
To break the brittle fish bones propping mine
Under sinew, beneath blood
I am a prisoner to headstone and grave spade
Yet the bones shall break
The roots have rotted
My dream wavers like a collapsing curtain
The song of a wood thrush is in my ear
Arbitrary hopes, where have you flown?
I can smell the wild pine and heather
I wait in stillness and expectancy
To be proven wrong
Fresh waters rush somewhere near
Will you see me if I come?
A sad child with wild ideals
The victim of a siren song
Whatever I once was, a thrush hope sings on