I Am Not The Dream
In your reality, I have no pulse. I heard you whisper.
Did you know I felt you whisper? I heard you
whisper my name, and you put it to a dream.
See the swell of my warm lips, the fire of my father’s eyes,
the sure lift of my mother’s chin? Blood rushes here;
the blood of a thousand generations of proud lives in me.
And I begged you. I begged you to see me, to know me.
I begged you to love me, while a thousand generations
of proud ears closed themselves to spare me shame.
You turned away. I prayed for you; prayed for you
to know touch in a place real for you. I prayed for you,
while a thousand generations offered voices to heaven for me.
And one morning, I was awakened by a voice. My voice,
the voice of a thousand generations, called your name.
Sunlight warmed lips, lifted proud chin, and opened eyes to see.
And the face of a thousand generations of proud
looked sharp from my great grandmother’s rosewood mirror;
looked into my eyes and asked why I had cried your name.
I touched a finger to real blood warmed lips and smiled.
And with the voice of a thousand generations of proud
I answered for all of us, ‘Hush now, he was only a dream’.