9/20

Not dreaming so much of houses
but of conversations never had.
pointed and lucid and brave and
open eyed
all.
not dreaming so much of houses
(I used to roam about in great white hallways always lookIng for the remnant which would allow me to recreate the whole from the scrap of tissue, like the fantasies of cloning from a single cell, reconstituted so that I could say what I had to say, undiluted, and be heard.
Houses that I picture in my mind as though they were still in tact. I do not dream these things anymore, although I remember them as though they were not dreams.)

Now I am in a train station or subway. Underground.
I know this from the noise, the tracks. Do they diverge? is there a choice to be made here?
I am speaking to my daughter. I am telling her my truth. The words are swallowed by the roar of the trains. She is looking at me and she too is speaking. The words are lost. Truth is relative, I tell myself. My truth is not her truth. I do not dream of houses anymore. I have moved on.


©marthabilski