after C.S. Lewis’ book, The Last Battle
I woke this morning from a deep sleep, dreaming
of standing in an endless line in a beautiful meadow, uncomfortably
warm, and strangely yellow, and waiting to meet you.
Someone, ape-like and with cruel eyes, told me to prepare
three questions, and that I had only ten minutes
with you, so I’d better
hurry up.
In the dream, I remember thinking it couldn’t have been
you, not just because you were blonde, but because I felt
rushed, and frantic and suddenly left
with nothing of real importance to talk about, treated
as if I were a bother, and abruptly sent back to the end
of the line, like you didn’t want me to know you, like
you were hiding the fact that you were really a donkey
dressed in a lion’s suit.
I woke to a different kind of sunlight trickling
in between the blinds, striping the walls like
a circus tent and immediately needed, desperately,
to return to the meadow
to find you, to run up and down the line
of people, irritable and sweaty, calling your name
because you won’t be in some silly tent, but shoulder-
to-shoulder, waiting with us,
because, I’m sure of it, you live outside that cursed
tent, and outside the stuffy walls. O, how I want
to find you in the middle of everything,
sitting on the steps, and to plop down beside you, finally.
O, how I want to rest my head
on your shoulder and close my eyes and drift on the
ocean of dreams, and stay awhile,
your simple presence more than enough,
my restless heart suddenly questionless.
