Rauan Klassnik

 

 

 

From Dreaming

 

And, still, I had no idea how red you could shatter. How deep the sea, beating up against us. The first time I heard it we were lying in bed—and then, as I climbed out of my car and you rushed down and jumped into my arms. It was crying.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He speaks of his village, mother and father. And he speaks slowly and he makes many mistakes. Behind him the great Victoria Falls is roaring, mist settling all over us: great people, leaders and movie-makers. And, yes!—we're all soaking wet. And, yes!—we're all enraptured. It's going to happen, I think. It's going to happen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A hummingbird lands on your wrist. It's red and green and you say "this is so rare these days." This is all a trap, I think, pushing you up against a wall—you're going to rip my heart out—and I'm trying to really hurt you. You're laughing, not hurt at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In San Miguel I saw a Quinceañera girl. In a big white dress. In a bright red car. In front of an old, magnificent church. Strangers stopped to take her picture and she waved at them with tremendous poise. The square, behind her, was filled with balloons and tall sticks of candy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You are old. On your knees. I come towards you. You fall back. I am trying to save you. Pounding your chest. Mouth to mouth. The doorbell rings: a man with a tray full of presents. We trade you for them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Brightening red for a moment—and then, climbing back into your corpse-pale skin. A boy asks for a glass of water. No whales breaching. Just a tail, now and then. Lowering into you like a blue stone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

All day you've been coming up through the sky's stones. Your friends have been nice—in a tunnel—a woman leading you up into a silver city. Everything's slow. Fountains and ducks. It's time to go. Drink tea from small cups.