Alternating between two wide dirt roads on either side of an even wider river, my father driving, asking which road I preferred, changing directions in mid-air, crossing the water and lightly touching down, then continuing on . . . I said any road is fine, they all lead in the right direction — not because I knew, but because he was happy, and I wanted him to go on enjoying the ride. All the while, I never did see him, and I never did see myself. We had voices, but no arms, no legs, no hands. The landscape was dusty and unfamiliar, the destination, if there was one, unknown. I could say we arrived in wakefulness. I could say we travel on. But why spoil it with certainty, even if both are true?
November 25, 2021
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Categories: Dreams, New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 