Jennifer Angelina Petro
Every night, a friend
Comes to talk with me,
Carrying word of faraway
And intimately near places.
Sometimes she talks,
Animatedly, with an urgency
Known only to those with important news,
Sometimes she talks
In gently bobbing waves of psychedelia,
Which carry me on their drifting
Clouds to the shores of morning.
Sometimes she chases me
Without a word—just pursuing me
As if I were quarry, sometimes
She drops me, plunging me
Into the day, sweating and panicked.
Even when she appears sinister,
I have come to know she simply wants
To send messages from the soul.
And every morning, I wake
And forget everything
She said. Well, some of it
Lingers for a few moments, like
The scent of honeysuckle in spring;
But eventually, as I dress,
And rustle papers and books,
It fades, or lifts, or blows,
Or flies, or runs
I think sometimes
What if she ached to be known,
To be heard, to be validated, seen?
What if she simply wanted
To be there, like
An angel by the riverside.
Indeed, what if
All dreams were flocks of angels
Forming grand gestures and landscapes
Of secrets intent on revelation?
What if she was trying
To tell me she needed help
Or that the spiritual world
Was in trouble?
What if she was trying to tell me
That it’s time, as I sleep
Through my day,
To wake up and start singing?
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