THE DREAM IN WHICH I DIE
and dying means melting into a purple
liquid, thin as water, and while my body
decides to spill over the edge of the sofa
I reach out my arm which, of course, isn’t there,
to my person, graze the tops of his arm hair,
which make me think of downy tips of rye,
how they move together like water in the wind,
and ask him “Hey, can you feel that? Do you
feel me?” and he looks up. But, not quite at me.
No, I don’t think it’s ever been quite at me.
Lucy Walker is a Vermont poet currently studying for her MFA in Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She’s previously been published in Vantage Point, Blue Earth Review, and Off the Coast.