After Egypt

Thursday, September 17, 2009

in unvaried wilderness-waiting, I
write from real, from
what I've seen, from
what I've heard. And

I write real from what I don't
because I dreamed it once.

So I stare at me
in red light cast out from spinning
and ask

the stranger, "who were you in my
she does not answer - I do not
answer the question
- but I know I am not her

anymore, aching
to be what I cannot be, trying
to fit into old life, etching
desert sleep-sketches of
fuller times, omitting
realer, emptier, leaner times,

who I was, who
she was, who I
imagined I'd be when I was finally

from my slavery.

I write her down, and

she breathes
onto my paper, bleeds remember
into non-remembery, trades
old food for manna
and I wake alive in spite of
her wistful memory-nature

Clock reads early,
past time
for goodbyes.

She was me; I do not
regret her, and I cannot
despise the shadowy fingers weaving
dream-gray wilderness into

as a flaming sun rises on now-settled sea spread out
and Pillar becomes

Written in response to L.L. Barkat's poetry prompt - answering the question, "Who were you in my dream?"


Glynn said...

The life we sometimes call wilderness. This one got me, Kelly.

L.L. Barkat said...

I liked this...

"becomes Cloud on now-settled sea"

Nice angle to the poem!


nAncY said...

i can relate to the stranger that was my self and the strangness of being what i am now.

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