11 June 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 2
Dream of the X-Rayed Rose
It was the dream of the
x-rayed rose, of the
dentist in Seville and his love
for a Flamenco dancer, of how
when he took an x-ray of her jaw
she refused to let go of
the rose she held in her teeth
while she danced.
It was the dream again
of the x-rayed rose, of how,
once the dancer
had once again left
the dentist stared at the film
and saw each rose petal
was made of tiny, broken bones,
and onto each bone were etched names.
It was the dream of the names etched
onto the broken bones of the rose petals
in that Spanish
and I awoke past midnight, burning with fever.
I put my hand on my bare chest,
felt my heart
whirl and spin, pounding out some thing
like a language.
I stood at my window watching trees
stand still and cars not carrying you
pass by. In the dream it was only
for a moment, a heartbeat
that the dentist looked at the x-rayed rose
traced a finger over the black and white.
Beyond the trees, beyond the street,
the river's edge was beginning
to freeze. My open hand
on the window left a temporary
outline, heat that disappeared
before I even walked away.