Lighthouse

Last night, the dream of them sitting

at the foot of my bed

with that giant light bulb skull

                                    ‘oh — I forgot your brain could glow,’ I said

through the thick glaze of sleep, hands extended

                                    towards the places where light escaped from

                                                      tear duct, ear drum, nostril, gap of tooth

for a doubtful second I thought they’d recoil, but they offered

their skull toward me and I knew our trust was intact

I noticed our cheeks bore tracks of shiny hot tears,

I realised we weren’t in our usual dimension, but we

lived here now and I couldn’t have been be happier

out in the real world, where my feet touch a solid ground

and your skull glows quieter, softly, maybe only I can see it —

                                    I dare to roll under your hot skin and wander

                                    through your garden of anxious thought

I let your intricacies swamp my very existence                  (and despite

                                                                                                                              the emblazoned performance

                                                                                                                              of my independence)

                                                                                                            I wander into dreams with you and

                                                                                                            devour your breath and light.

I howl like a coyote over morning coffee and your hands

lovingly find my jugular in the dark

again and again

who wrote this chapter of our lives? why

did they endow me with such qualities as manic reading,

disturbed sleeping, heavy drinking

why

are you equipped to move through intimacy so unscathed and why

does your head glow at night — is it a lighthouse, beckoning, safe

or a warning sign  — ‘turn back

trust in the real, the daily, trust the solid and the durable

trust not what keeps you up at night.’

but what do I know.

‘you don’t have to be so good to me,’ you say

and we grin at each other like old conspirators, like partners in crime, like

my devotion is a running joke, and I laugh

because I know I don’t have to

                                                      that maybe I’d be better off to seal up the wound

                                                      that bears your name

                                                      but what’s good for us is boring and we

all see only what we want to

and when your head glows

from between my hands

in the laptop light of evening                        I see you as a lighthouse