January Dream, 1987

	January Dream, 1987
	
	On a sweltering summer night, my mother—
	who had not died yet—visited me after
	a nightmare. Said she died. I did not ask
	her to wake me. Despite the bad news, it
	was quite pleasant. No halos, no ascent.
	Just peace, and the first good night’s sleep in
	a long time. Without struggle, she opened
	my fingers, exposed my palm, and signed love
	into it—like Anne to Helen, precise
	and wordless. When I opened my eyes to
	the real morning, she vanished into the
	green room that needed painting. I lay still.
	At that time, I knew the work that remained.