The Maynard
Spring 2018

After Dreams

For the first time since we were born,
there were no shootings in New York City last weekend.
Only one of us lived to see it.
You died just as the cottonwoods
covered the sidewalks in snow.

I dream of your body in places other than the train tracks,
right after metal collided with your cells too fast.
Don’t picture the blood, how your head must have hurt.
Don’t wonder what part of your young body died first.

If you snap a cottonwood twig, there is a star
where it breaks, dark and unlikely against the woody flesh.
Tell me what that means so we can move on.

I dream of your body in dark rooms, you move through the night
like it’s a river, you’re a branch pulled along
or hanging from the ceiling by twine.
When I awake, it’s almost true.

It was quiet last weekend in New York.
I can say there are no cottonwood trees
in the whole city, and you’ll never know I’m wrong.