11 June 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 2

Dream of the X-Rayed Rose

by WESTON CUTTER

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

                                        dentist's office

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.