The Temptress Writes Once More About the Dream of Him and Still Poetry Won’t Make Sense of It For Her

Always, it begins with my fingers gently
breaking the neck of the hyacinth.  
Cinderella-white and erotic

drape of each stem holding a sweetness of
eyes, eyes unblinking, eyes of pale angels.
Forgive me, I say to the hyacinth, but I am tired of your

girlishness and the expectant fragrance of your 
hooved loneliness. This is not a dream of death
in spite of the little killing, is it? I ask myself in the dream, in spite of the

joy of the pinprick of  juice, this one tiny jerk this un-
kiss, this opposite kiss, this instead of pulling hyacinth inside of me, I 
lure it outside of itself. And then the heaviness of the

man intrudes. How can I speak of this waking inside a dream?
Never before this no and yes dream of waking and not waking he
over me his dream-soaked body and the silky openness of him and I

promising my lips even before I call out to him who are you and he 
quietly too quickly even as I am quaking under him and he leaves he does
releasing me and re-leaving me. Dawn

shatters inside my bedroom.  
This aloneness. This aloneness in this bed now a  
universal ache. Vanished his lips having travelled to me,
vanished his lips having dreamed in me, vanished his everywhere touching me.

Waking, I see the hyacinths in the vase wilt and winter themselves.
X- dreamed, x-intercepted, x-kissed now into this wakefulness.
You. You refuse to come back into my dreams. I lay upon my 
z-coordinate, lay on all my coordinates for you. Soon there will be no more map.


Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in The Journal, Spillway, Heron Tree, Redactions, Pebble Lake Review, Redheaded Stepchild, and Verse Wisconsin.  Her poems have received Pushcart Prize nominations and a Best of the Net nomination.  Her most recent chapbook, Her Vena Amoris, is available from Red Bird Chapbooks.

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