Friday, June 15, 2012

the dream of the blue basket

I wish I knew the contents of my dreams and I wish the contents
Like hairpins made of Andean mountain roads or mist
in my braids that swayed as I danced before they were shaved off

Like a bright blue silk scarf sticking to my skin in the heat of the Otavalan market,
or the enduring fisherman from Guayaquil

Like sopa con papa y maiz,
aguardiente and a brown paper bag spilling over with fried plantains 

A star-filled sky resting over the sea shore that stores hundreds of sand dollars,
cardboard planked houses in Esmeraldas floating atop tide-withstanding stilts--

What are dreams made of, Sister?
Am I wishing for a home with you, Brother?
I'll do anything for you.

I know my dreams point to somewhere else,
but I just hope I have something to give to my children.

I wish I possessed mi abuela's blue basket.
Though in my dream it was red.
Though in my dream my heart was content.


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