In dream symposium fashion, I remember to remember the nighttime visions, the days before time, the circular paths of meetings on these long veins of coming back again.
Jung and his blue heads, each closer to the earthy core each more clear in its makeup, distinguishable eyes and mustaches, most men, some women, all their own lifetimes and out on the periphery are the skulls, no longer distinguishable without a scientific reenactment of cheek-fats built up like clay to be a face.
Today, I am there in that long room, you now a man who behaves still as a boy, blue jeans and trendy shoes, dying your hair the raven of youth to cover the wisdoms of white, I read the story of blonde, the silky layers of spun and straight to be flipped over shoulders and collar bones, but mine always an afro of static-clinged, wired and dark, a sponge of fright after our romps in the woods or hay.
Yesterday, I saw in your eyes the man who stood above me while the others spat venom in words and deed, took down something, a me something who was once her Daddy’s butterfly and smashed her like a large moth flopping against the ground, the molding and frosted over leaves, far from flight of moon, tore first from me each wing and then,
without remorse, each antennae so I wouldn’t know which way to fly in a string of later lives, dazzling days without direction, a debt to be paid.