Fairy Tale

We are both staring at the horizon;
I feel his gaze drift by; I'm used to the dream-wake
So I glimpse sunset, his face, and then the head
At the edge of twilit skies, where the clouds have faded
Against the bright line. I can feel the wish, gentle as the pulse
Of the wings against the glass beneath my palm.
Soon, I think, I'll have jelly the color of the dark sky,
Of gothic, purple, Halloween eyeshadow.
I have to let the butterfly, go, first.
But something will have to sparkle in that sweet
Dark sky of starlight and myth juice and wonder.
They let us simmer babies' dreams because our eyes,
Our brains, the tips of our fingers
Have weakened, have filled with wool, have roughened.
Babies' dreams are vivid, thick as sunlight in the womb
Where warmth and heartbeat and light are the same.
You can't stew them properly unless you can
See past the vividness, to the glass, to the spoon.
Unless you can press it into the wing molds
When it's still hot.
I don't gather dreams for the old, but I feel his,
The memory of horsehair and glue, the feel of horn,
His fingers smooth on the carving knife,
The darkness and lamplight
Until a unicorn's head or a mule's head or talking
Horse head perched on his table, for the festivals,
For the school, for the church.
He's dreaming of the eyes, bottle glass eyes
Reflecting a twilight the color of the jelly
I've got to boil in the summer wind
Leave this to set on by the window
Where a unicorn will grow, a smooth
Moonlight plaster skin, from old memories and new sensations
The way a butterfly came from a caterpillar
In this self-same glass jar.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse.

-- Chrissa