Going Home

Katherine McLeod Searle

I spoke to you
across the landscape of my dream.
You took shape again. I could see
what my hands will look like
after a few more months of stress.
You never bit your nails, preferring
to gnaw away at the soft flesh
on the side of the nail bed.
You faced me, a chasm yawning
between us, close enough
to see the soft down
on your cheeks and the line
of your jaw, smudged by gravity.
I felt sixteen again,
breezing through the house
on my way to somewhere,
anchored by the Sunday roast
in the oven and the bleach
of wash day permeating the house.
Did you hate me for my freedom—
my red lips, full without benefit of makeup?
The chasm widened. I ached
to say things to you—you were ashes
before I really grew up. I woke, comforted
in a blurry haze as if we'd giggled ourselves silly
over chocolate sodas
at Walgreen's lunch counter.
We must have spoken before waking
erased my memory. The sense of well-being
lasted long enough to know
the words were insignificant.

Katherine McLeod Searle