Ben, I Have Not Dreamed
Karyna McGlynn
Ben, I have not dreamed
of your dead mother's old blue Chevy.
Ben, I have not dreamed
I am crawling across that cracked vinyl to you.
I have not dreamed of the Aqua-Net air,
the cold cream air-conditioning. Ben,
I have not dreamed
we are going to pick ripe figs today,
have not dreamed I am feeling
the tiny rivers of juice
down my arm when we split them.
Ben, I have not dreamed:
the cigar smoke,
the gold bond smoke,
the stuck window.
I have not dreamed that I will jump out for beans
and fill my pockets,
that they will 'snap'
like green bones in our fingers.
I have not dreamed I am watching Mud-Dauber nests
while you polish saddles, have not dreamed
the blood of your swift knife inside the cold fish,
have not dreamed
of your red Vizsla dying at your boots, Ben,
I have not dreamed you are sending me letters
that I am not answering, Ben,
have not dreamed of the lines that crease your eyelids
and the liver-spots,
have not dreamed of this house
cinching you in like a yellowing corset.
Ben, I have not dreamed of age
sifting the boulders from your voice
and leaving sand.
Ben, I have not dreamed that I am outliving you,
have not dreamed that I am only a little girl,
or of the weeds in the onion rows.
Ben, I have not dreamed of the rotting Fig
dropping fruit at my feet,
have not dreamed the dreamless nights,
crossing drunk waters
to your hot Louisiana bed.
Ben, I have not dreamed the memory
of your leather arms and white shirts entwining,
snapping at my wheels and heels
as I come for you in fever.
Ben, I have not dreamed
of looking down at my sticky hands
and waiting for your heart to turn over again
like an old blue Chevy.
