The interpreter of my dreams professes
his love for me with the last words from his lips
before the lights go out, then sleeps curled
around my back, one hand cupping a bare breast.
A Shakespeare scholar and devoted fan of Jung
professor emeritus of literature popular culture
and horror a reader of a dozen books at once
a writer with dialogue going on in his head
most of the time, he listens with morning patience
to my ramblings about disjointed dreamscapes
and tells me all who roam there are my own personae:
the one chasing me and the one I am chasing
in the shadow of the moon the moon itself
and all of the others just below the water’s surface.
I absorb what he says and nod and go on
as if it’s enough to have said the dream aloud,
until near fatal clots travel to his lungs and fog
descends to obliterate the entire dreamscape.
The next morning my throat closes around
a hollowness that takes my breath away.