In my dream, the small white house with oyster-
shell roof—chimney waving ghostly signal
to me—rests on emerald grass, moisture
feeding it from the wide river, ripples
and rapids blurring before me like some
dream within the dream. I’m on the other
side, gazing across fertile valley—home
from war, yet still not home—my dead brother’s
whisper urging me on: Tell them the truth,
he rasps. Don’t let them get away with it.
My jaw’s clinched so tight, I feel a weak tooth
chip, drooling out along my lips. I spit
it toward the far mountain. Hear my harsh hiss
repeat, Don’t dare let them see you like this.
Roger Armbrust
March 5, 2009
