Last night in the dark silence of your sleep
I was buzzing inside —
I had a thousand things to say.
My thoughts dusted the room with yellow pollen
so thick I couldn’t see myself in the mirror
so sticky I couldn’t open my windows
to see what was happening outside.
My bedroom, a yellow snow globe…
and the dust speckled the fractal ferns I keep in my heart
that faithfully unfurl with each breath
now heavy, beautiful, gilded, and golden with the possibility of things
I didn’t say.
I joined you in your wordless sleep
and in my dreams I was in my greenhouse.
The body of a dead, white haired man lay broken on banana leaves —
he fell through the skylight
and I breathlessly covered him with a white linen cloth.
Under Shiva’s command
crocuses sprouted from beneath his weight.
Because things sprout under the dark, fertile weight of things we don’t say.
Back to back in bed.
When we hold our tongues, our breath grows deeper.
Gracias, these electric dialogues of silence
they show me
the beautiful things that might grow
in the darkness of my private mind.
Like the young avocados in the paper bag beneath my bed
Me and my words wait
until the perfect moment
to sit with you, my love,
at the rich banquet of our thoughts unspoken
and ceremoniously dine.