Carl Scharwath, Enigma
(Model: Afruja Ahktar)
Please Don’t Tell Me About Your Dreams
D. Dina Friedman
Tell me instead about colors you dance to,
the song of a sip of water landing cold on your tongue.
Tell me the verb a silk scarf makes on the insides of your fingers,
the smell of an itch in an unreachable place, the murmur
of a baby’s head against your cheek. Tell me about the long adventure
of air moving in through your lungs, out through the universe;
the angle of twinkle in the stars. What can you find
when the sky darkens? Mars’s red tinge? Unidentified balloons?
The joyful shriek of the subway zinging underneath a neon horizon?
Tell me about the hanging bats, bottom up in your own personal eaves,
what you think of those experts who insist your view is skewed.
Tell me about bemusement, that hazy spot under the sternum
where words cavort in whirlpools, radiant and giddy in the rush.
D. Dina Friedman
Tell me instead about colors you dance to,
the song of a sip of water landing cold on your tongue.
Tell me the verb a silk scarf makes on the insides of your fingers,
the smell of an itch in an unreachable place, the murmur
of a baby’s head against your cheek. Tell me about the long adventure
of air moving in through your lungs, out through the universe;
the angle of twinkle in the stars. What can you find
when the sky darkens? Mars’s red tinge? Unidentified balloons?
The joyful shriek of the subway zinging underneath a neon horizon?
Tell me about the hanging bats, bottom up in your own personal eaves,
what you think of those experts who insist your view is skewed.
Tell me about bemusement, that hazy spot under the sternum
where words cavort in whirlpools, radiant and giddy in the rush.