Dream Decanted

After this pilgrimage, she came to stay in Village Nadir, on the eastern banks of that river, at sunset, for several days. While there she rested; taking tea with the sisters lazing in almond blossoms’ shade in the mornings; stretching her weary joints outside House Jerepigo, where widow Jornada worked, at times a seamstress, at times a scribe, in the afternoons; meditating in the spare room of the retired motel on her growth in the evenings.

But if you go into the village from the western road, crossing over the St. Wendelin Bridge, a stone thing of three reinforced arches to support trade which peaks in late summer near wheat harvest time, you will pass first the shrine to Legba. Beyond that you will pass the fire house where smith and potter, blower and else work. You will then come into this village square, tiled with imported rocks from every corner of every empire to have touched Nadir. All doors face that well. As you walk, heels of your boots clicking on the polished plaza, along the northern edge, you would come upon an alley, behind the fishmonger’s stand, between the buildings housing a clockmaker, a stamp carver, a poet (Amelia), and an armory, wherein, worse than her aforementioned sins, she romanced him in the night.

And though for rows of nights she would meet him, laughing beard smelling of lotus perfume, listening to music playing with calloused palms, tonight will be their first date.

If you go down to the water, to the Davka Bridge, a wooden thing south of this other bridge, used locally for foot traffic, you would see where they plan to meet at high moon, near midnight. He is to bring two servings of saffron rice with yogurt. She, the merlot. She will bring a second bottle for good measure. She hadn’t told him she would ask him to run away with her. He hadn’t told her he would say yes.

If you go down to the water, hiding among the wild rosemary bushes itching at your exposed neck and arms, you would see the moon came and went, midnight came and went, she came and went, when he won’t arrive.

If you go down to the water you would see her meandering north against the current.

If you go down to the water, in hours you will say is still late in the night, just before you will say it is early in the morning, come upon those four old men sitting in their station. She will regard them. She will bow low to them. She will approach them. She will pour the wine as offerings to them. She will open a second bottle for good measure.

Those men, the old ones, the four, each of them, in turns, then, spoke.

I had a dream my apartment was robbed, the furniture gone. So, I gathered the hardwood floors in my hands like clay and began to build the space anew. When the couch was formed, I woke.

I had a dream I was sitting in the center of a synagogue, packed. Swaying, the young men praying. I rose. I gave D’var Torah. As I spoke I grew passionate, stomping foot, slamming table, raising voice. My hair and beard grew and shrank to the rhythmed fervor. When the young men cried out, I woke.

I had a dream I was on a date with a woman. I noticed my hands peeling. I kept them under table, trying to peel back my skin without her noticing. The server walked by, setting a mirror between our table and the other. I looked into it. My brow and chin and cheeks were peeling the same. I reached up to pull it off. It’s fine. It’ll come off in its own time. Her voice reminded me of the ocean. When she kissed me, I woke.

I had a dream I was standing on the middle of a lake surrounded by pine trees. The surface of the water was littered with eggs. As I peeled them each one was inside — emptiness. I rose, tall, bare. I looked up, crushed eggshells crumbling out my palms. I saw the moon, bright, full, high. When he winked, I woke.