Slip under the covers with me,

wrap yourself in my sweat

and plead my case to the heavens

when we’ve gone. . .


into Southside, an old house

a dark woman that I hold,

and though I am not certain of her love

I tell her of mine and don’t know why–

outside on the curb someone holds an ancient picture of my mother

and I discover that we are cousins—this chthonic woman and I.


Back into the old house, there’s a man downstairs

who thinks I should be able to see through

the floor boards, that he should never have

to tell me that he’s holding one of my numbers—

that I’ll just know.


These are the equations, the convergences,

the quaternities. 

Perhaps there is nothing else.  


There is a river of image, story, metaphor, a river that tells us who we are, what we want and need, and the things that keep us from having them. We dive under the currents of this river at night, when the lights go down. And we float without breath in the underworld, the images, the stories and the meanings running through us. We become whole there, only to awaken in half-time, half the meaning of life only partially revealed. Perhaps, if we could just hold the dream, like a fish caught by hand, until we have skinned, filleted, cooked and eaten it–perhaps then we could know the whole story, live the whole dream. 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014


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