After Egypt

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

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

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

the stranger, "who were you in my
dream?"
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,

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

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,
late,
past time
for goodbyes.

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

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

-------------------------------

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