When the war ended, a dream
hovered over my bed, made of plumes
of blood and splintered weapons, of
words and wounds that turned us
into an impossible thing to repair,
but also sighs saying we could float,
lightly. A dream of being with you,
no longer feeling as an orphan,
no longer fleeing — not right away
but someday, when you had stripped
enough figs from their twigs and laid
them under muslin in the sun,
when I had a regular job and a house
white as sea salt, when no false note,
no cheats nor rot spoiled our music,
when our love in the child’s eyes
read like a nation’s pride, a dream
clearer than what was going to happen,
deeper within flesh and faith
that only an unreliable heaven
had confirmed —
thus wiped like breath
on the glass of reality.