Attempt At Language

Attempt at Language

for Jan

I told you of my dream.

            The way I pulled my painting from the wall

            folded it into quarters, placed it in a plastic bag

            with the words To Joseph written in pencil

            in the far corner.

In the far corner lies the dog I call “My Own.”

            My Own is black with a single white circle

            circling his right eye.

                        It is in this eye that I like to imagine gold flecks

            reflecting the arrival of dawn.

You asked me what art means to me.

Maybe I said soup. Maybe bread. Maybe vision…

            …What was art in the dream—

                        vision.

We determined I was protecting my vision

by sending my art with Joseph,

not the Joseph of Mary,

but Joseph with the cocoa skin and thick boots,

hands the size of a folded towel.

The dream speaks of strength, you say.

I think, what strength?

Have you ever tried to rip a phonebook in two?

            It takes a guillotine.

Maybe I have guillotine strength

although a small bird is safe in my palm—

            a soft touch, like breath.

You are good to me,

good at reminding me there is a depth to me

that will save my ass—

            I don’t need to see the open door to move forward…

remembering the sound of your voice,

remembering you seated before me at visiting hours,

your body relaxed and vibrating warmth

reminds me of love, to love, to always love—

            it doesn’t take dynamite to clear the way.