She awoke in the middle of a dream, in the middle of a bed, in the corner of
a room, soft grey light filtering through blind slats. She was in the arms of
an angel. She couldn't totally remember the night before, except images of Bernini's
Ecstasy of St. Teresa kept flashing in her mind, pinpoints of brilliant light
radiating from a divine being, her body wracked with shivers of pleasure. She
wasn't sure if she was still asleep. Life teemed insider her, 1000s of tiny
worlds and universes living and dying, organisms attacking other organisms,
some probably wondering when their god would save them, but like most gods,
she was wrapped up in her blanket, dreaming or not dreaming.
As she began to focus, she saw that the being that she was in the arms of was
not an angel. At least the information didn't parse as angel in this mind state.
Instead it was a man, smiling in his sleep, dreaming his own dream, his own
world, where she might or might not be. He reminded her of Donatello's David--not
that big muscular half-cocked David by Michelangelo, but the sly, shy, smiling
bronze youth, naked except for boots and headgear, his slender inner thigh being
tickled by the giant's playful horn. She suddenly had a memory of her tongue
sliding up this guy's inner thigh. She could taste blood in the back of her
throat. She was sleepy.
She awoke in the middle of a dream in the heart of the heart of the country,
some country, another city, not her own. Songs about buildings and food in the
back of her head. Blinded grey light through slats. Reminded her of being a
kid and pulling her knit hat over her eyes, little pinpricks of light radiating
through the wool. Some guy next to her, reminded her of Brian Eno for some reason,
just a little boy with grey eyes, deep in her womb. Enochian angels, Philip
K. Dick's visitors, the dog-headed gods of Sirius B. Why go to college, just
fuck strange guys you meet randomly in strange places. She read it in books.
Sweetness, some memory of sweetness came over her, she could taste grenadine
in the back of her throat, sticky on her lips. She remembers licking sloe gin
out of the little hollow above the clavicle. She's very sleepy.
This dream was of mudpuppies, chubby salamanders slipping over wet smooth rocks,
splashing into shallow cool water. Then, snakes slithering in a dark warm pit,
all cozy and content, bellies filled with bird's eggs.
She awoke in the middle of a dream, beautiful man next to her, languidly laid out. Grey misty light filtering over his body. She holds his beating heart in her hands. She licks the dripping blood off her wrist; it tastes like maple syrup.
She awoke in the middle of a scream, his hand deep in her throat, pulling out
her pulsing heart. Aztec sacrifice, she is grateful for the end.
copyright 1999, marie mundaca. all rights reserved.