Poem by Melissa Studdard
In Another Dimension, We Are Making Love
What color is dreaming? you ask.
I answer in the language of fleur-de-lis,
paisley and plaid. Then, what is the sound of death?
you ask, so I draw you a picture of dreaming.
What is left to know but that I’m re-writing the formula
for the air between us? Part nitrogen, part oxygen, the rest trace gasses
of love. Like you, I believe most in what
I cannot see or hear. Anger: a wounded steam
rising from the cauldron of your throat.
Alchemy: the steam dissipates, and you reach
across the table for my hand. So—
let’s note that it was already storming before we arrived,
though our only proof
is an exhausted cloud passed out in the courtyard
and a thunderbolt curled up beside it.
Let me point out that in another dimension
this restaurant is a bedroom
in which we are making love. Don’t
try to understand.
Just paint the air human,
take off your clothes,
hand back your coat of arms.
What you mistook for a person
is really a country
with a dark and sacred history
and no scholars to explain away the confusion.
Just burn the archives down.
Everything we have to know
we learned from a picture of dreaming.
Everything we need to remember
can fit on a scrap of paper
smaller than your hand.