the country i have been trying to dream
there is a country i visit only in sleep,
where loneliness grows antlers each winter, so no one mistakes it for anything else.
children learn to braid them with honeysuckle. old women hang lanterns from their tines before dusk.
the postman delivers letters addressed to the people we almost became.
the clocks grow pears instead of hours.
every staircase, if climbed patiently enough, arrives at the sea.
when someone grieves, their shadow fills with fish, and neighbours come quietly with buckets, returning them one by one before the water remembers how to drown.
my father leaves each morning with pockets full of thunderstorms, but comes home carrying only apples.
my mother keeps a cupboard where broken voices are folded between blankets until they are warm enough to speak again.
my sister whistles once, and every lost thing turns its face toward home.
evening lowers itself like a great blue animal to drink from the roofs.
the moon molts its white feathers into the gardens.
we gather them for pillows.
no one wakes with empty hands.
when i rise,
my shoes are still filled with ordinary dust,
the clocks remember their old obedience,
and every staircase ends exactly where it should.
still,
some mornings
i find a single white feather
waiting
inside my pocket.
the city where nobody forgets their dreams
"did your staircase grow feathers again?"
"no, but the sea came into my kitchen. it apologised before it left. i think it was looking for someone's grandmother."
"that's happened before. leave the window open tonight."
"did the moon remember your name?"
"only the first half of it. the second half belonged to somebody who hasn't been born yet."
"your roses are speaking again."
"only in my father's voice. i've stopped watering them after sunset."
"the postman came."
"with letters?"
"with all the words i forgot to say when i was fourteen."
"did you keep them?"
"i planted them. there's a small forest behind the shed now."
"your staircase?"
"still made of wood."
"lucky."
"not really. i miss the feathers."
"did the fish return your shadow?"
"most of it. they've kept one corner until next tuesday."
"fair enough."
"where did you leave your heart this time?"
"in the library. between two poems that kept pretending they weren't about each other."
"someone will bring it back."
"i know."
"your mother?"
"she found yesterday folded inside the washing."
"and your father?"
"he came home with rain in his pockets again. we hung it by the door to dry."
"how was school?"
"perfectly ordinary. someone forgot their dream for almost three minutes."
"that must have frightened everyone."
"it did."
"what did you dream?"
"a city where nobody ever forgot them."
"how strange."
"i know."
"i'm glad we don't live there."
the sound of an island that doesn't exist
it sounds
like whales remembering they were mountains.
like teacups filling themselves with afternoon.
like a violin played by the shadow of an apple tree.
it sounds the way blue would speak,
if somebody were patient enough to listen.
like moths folding the moon into handkerchiefs.
like rain trying on its first name.
like all the clocks in the world
laughing
at exactly the same moment.
there are birds there
whose songs arrive three days before the birds.
there are bells
that ring only when nobody is lonely.
every evening,
the sea climbs ashore
to ask the houses
whether they slept well.
the houses
always answer
with smoke.
i have never set foot upon that island.
still,
some mornings,
i wake
already homesick
for its silence.
