by David Dresner
I sleep above a war.
I dream of muskets shooting at me through the pines,
the pink mist rising into the sun,
igniting the blood red Georgia sky
and catching fire in American clouds
that rush over me as my body
splashes backwards into a muddy river.
This war is a bad dream,
but still, in it things are clear to me
like the silvery trout wading in the deep
creek behind our house, your calico dress–
I will die for what is mine,
in dreams or awake.
If time is a cannon,
nostalgia is a wet wick, and memories
are the cannonballs,
burning in the blue flame
that ignites the guilty white powders
of the heart.
When you dream of me,
let me remain a cannonball man,
melting down and hardening
blunt, devious spheres
that are all I have to remember you by.