You come to me in a dream,
with a U-Haul [insert lesbian joke],
and so does that waiter from the gyro place on McMillan,
but in the dream the guy is your brother and translator,
and the only way I can talk to you is to talk to him first,
tell him everything I want to say to you,
even though I am close enough to trace
my finger over your hipbone,
to smell your Aussie guava shampoo,
whisper in your ear.
You’re moving to Illinois and all I do
in this dream is load up the U-Haul,
a yellow kitchen table, a couch I lift
with no help from the waiter/brother—
but my muscles and man-strength do not impress you,
you proud lesbian—a coffee pot, fourteen pashminas,
a loaf of bread I assume someone you’re fucking made you,
which I set carefully on a plate and in the front seat.
There was a time when you wanted me back,
when you called me on the phone
over and over, said come home to me
enough times that I almost listened,
enough times that I’d like to believe
I almost stopped fucking whoever I was fucking then
to run back to you in a full sprint.
Instead I packed you up, literally
stuffed our relationship into a box—
the boarding passes to Orlando and San Francisco,
the Bacardi coasters I kept from a gay club
in Columbus, the letters you signed
I am yours and I love you completely—
and shoved it under my bed.
There was a time, years later, when we ended up
at the same bar the night before Thanksgiving.
Another girl on your arm, I could hardly approach you,
could hardly believe that my hair looked good enough
to walk up to you, that I was ever worthy,
and right after I said hi, you stuck your tongue
so far down that girl’s throat that I was the one choking,
coughing up every fantasy I ever had of us ending up together.
If I could reenter that dream, you’d say yes
when I suggest we take a lunch break,
go to the gyro restaurant where the waiter
would go back to being a waiter
and serve us falafel. I’d get my tzatziki on the side
and give it to you, like always. If I could
reenter that dream, I’d pay the check
and walk you back to the U-Haul,
but not before I crawled under my bed
to grab the box, dust us off. If I could
reenter that dream, I’d set the box in the back
of the truck so it’d be the first thing you see
when you get to Chicago. If I could
reenter that dream, I wouldn’t wake up
until my phone rang, until it was you.