I am sleeping soundly, almost —
save for the headache that jerks my eyes open,
dancing down the bridge of my nose and
tangling itself up in my hair.
At my aching elbow,
I feel the soft pull of one of my ancestors.
She gently pushes back
the fabric and smooths it down.
This must have been a fleeting moment
brought about by a dream.
It couldn't have been real.
But her graying hair, her dark kaftan,
her wrinkled hand —
I know she was there.
Thank you, m'mi.
We're separated by hundreds of years,
but thank you for coming to visit me
in my delirium.
I start asking myself questions so that I can fall
back asleep without disturbing anyone else:
Did Emily Dickinson write the same poem twice?
Why do snowflakes look like that?
Will that jar of jam freeze if I leave it in my car?
I quit asking questions and I fall asleep
in the warm embrace of
history and memory.
