I don’t write about it because
writing about it
would be like the abortive attempt I made
in my spiral bound notebook —
the one with the mandala —
to describe the scene
with the wedding gown,
in the ground floor shop
of my dream last night.
The one with Winona Ryder who
donned a 1920s inspired
off-white sleeveless gown
(really, they were cap sleeves).
I opened the curtain of
the dressing room to find her
half-naked due to the
deep and dramatic V
reaching down her abdomen
revealing the
underscoop of her breasts
and half of one nipple.
“It’s beautiful,” I told her.
“But you’ll need to have it altered.
I’m worried they won’t be able
to maintain the look
once it’s fitted to your frame.”
She didn’t listen.
She told the seamstress to
press on and then, of course,
the dream shifted to the scene
in the ice cream shop
where the chiropractor I used
to know was offering me pills —
rat poison packaged as RU486 flavored
jelly beans.
They were red, with the taste of cherry,
and they made me gag as I chewed them.
So you see why
I can’t write about it.
There is beauty
and there is darkness
and they blend together at times
in a way that’s describable
but only to the point of
surreal not to the point
of understanding.
Not to the point
at which you know
you have navigated
directly into my thoughts.
