The Spell

The night after we first met,
after the ghosts of air
rustled the blinds in the window
and circled the room
where we sat in easy chairs
face to face, I dreamed
we followed the road
to the outskirts of town,
pavement to gravel, then
dust. We were traveling on foot,
heat from the road, heat
from the sky, and the child
tracing our steps with a stick
fainted under the spell of it.

You carried her in your arms
like a bride over a threshold,
setting her down in the low grass

when it was time to rest.
All night I dreamed you,
lifting and lowering the child,
her blonde head tethered to a body
by the lace of her neck, veins threaded blue
to match the sky that hovered
above us. All night,
walking with you. What was
our destination? Where were we going
when the road broke through
to morning: bed, lamp,
book pressed open on the beside table,
not you, but my husband beside me?