| in each hand a disparate dream: in all dreams another far too quiet: delirium of the mask and God behind it: paradise had no winter like this: this is the one where the infant sleeps in the dirt the sleep of a dreamless mind so far from home he no longer resembles anyone: his mother, thrown down, hunted, sick with fear, sleeps next to him among the filth of animals: his father watches (the imperative that love —not solace— demands), for there is no room for another sleeper: the desert will keep bringing its mirage, no doubt: the child will walk in his shimmering garden, says the wilderness, if you just get across: motes in the light rise and rest: sole face left (remember you are dust) of our first lost image: Copyright © 2019 by Gina Franco. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 3, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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