She appears in the dream, put together
From various substances, colors, and names.
A litte Kristina, a little Teresa
With a bit of Sofia, a pinch of Magdalene.
She works in a salon. She wears a white frock.
The others, hairdressers and manicures,
Don’t like her. They’ve just rebuked her:
—“You’re just pretending, you’re not real.
Inside you’re nothing. nada, nichts.”
Maybe so. Is she mine, or isn’t she?
She seems here with me, but she’s playing the field.
She’s picked up the preacher,
Who’s slobbering over her, in public, in the cafe,
While his woman, with screams, weeping<
Is telling us about a certain clinic,
Whose director, a nice old mammoth,
Does abortions on the side, for people he knows.
(She married him once, by the way, a while back)
She’s headed there again, I don’t ask her why.
An enormous gilt consumes me, and anger.
—“My child or not”—I shout—“I won’t allow it!””
Above the earth, from the stars, paling at the dawn,
The sound runs, becomes enormous. It is so, silence says.
In Excelsis. Forever. She is blessed.
This poem he wrote for me and to me. For all the women; the ones
that dare not call themselves poetess–for Sonia, Clara and Liz
those I know who add to his dream–the plurality. He was listening
and looking and is waiting for us.