Thursday, February 5, 2009

In His Dreams

In his dreams of pogroms, he is the Jew.
Each night he hears the dogs coming for him,
the horses’ hooves on stone,
the men with whips, shouting.
Each night he escapes many times,
and wipes the dogs' saliva from his neck.

In his dreams I speak his language.
I understand him perfectly when he tells me of
his hunger, his loneliness, his wanderlust.
I do just as he asks. He is the lonely hero.
I am the whore with a heart of gold.

In his dreams flowers turn into birds
birds turn into rabbits,
mice have feathered wings, are fat, and taste like fish.
It is always night. All the dogs are caged
and foxes jog freely down deserted streets.