Wet Onions

by Emily Carmen

At night, I gather up oblivion, breathing in shadows
through fertile earth and the scent of moments
gone.  I do it for you, and the bones of our
branches, the soil above us smelling of
wet onions and the moisture of photographs, long
boxed up in attics, molding and forgotten.
Remember when we used to die; we would tear
our dresses off, crackling through the melodies of
Wagner’s operas with his rich chromatics
filling the air as he leaned in the alley, crutches at his side.

We’d lose the reins that held us in and
gallop aimlessly, like wild palominos through
fields of sunsets, where the sky became sky, truly.
Stories you told me would waver between us and
hang suspended like ancient stalactites in the
recesses of the earth’s lament.

Now, our house in the clouds rises.
Five or six times you have wandered out
the side door, laughing into blueness.
You mean to dream, I know, and swim in seas of
pink and purple vanishings; to stray into places
beyond the reach of everyone but ourselves,
where all that happens remains forever, and
midnight ships pass a swan crested in gold.

You mean to dream, I know, and swim in the sea
forever.