Imaginary Birds

Anne Tammel

​
In my dream
I went back
to my mother’s house.
 
It was winter; she
sat at the edge
of my bed
 
while I slept--
shivering, as she would
early Saturdays
 
in my moonlit room, with
the Aurora Borealis-painted
plaster ceilings and moody skies.
 
This time, instead of
remembering my father, she
watched over me…
 
     You only live once. You
      are what you dreamt you
      were. You are here.
 
Lobster steamed
in the kitchen, a sky
of gray San Jose December;
 
Imaginary lavender vines
ran next to June birds outside--
the children of cool memories
 
in the city I love so much, with
the broken sidewalks, old-paned windows,
and the ghosts of all the shops that have now closed.
 
     You only live once.
     You are here—you are
      all you dreamt you would be.
 
She could no longer
sleep. We both knew this—we
both remembered the November night
 
she could not talk to me; the dawn
slowly coming and the birds
outside circling nervously.
 
That night, she looked at me:
Don't tell me. I said. I know.
She looked again.
 
She knew, all
I needed
was to sleep
 
at my mother’s house,
to dream by her side,
to dream
 
about birds, to count
pantomimes,
to write.