Your Dreams Were Like This
You dreamt a language--
wrote the whole set
of characters in thin strokes.
It could have been an Asian
alphabet, or Sanskrit.
You spent hours searching
for something like it, for
someone who might know it.
Perhaps you hoped
to dream a translation.
You wondered why you
dreamt it—what meaning
was in it? No answer.
You left it, came back to it.
Showed it around, put it away.
I have your language in a box.
I too cannot untangle it, but have
not yet tossed its blank stare
to the wind, as we did
In My Closet
it was this summer dress I wore
when I remembered the gardener
and the blue-knit shirt I had on
when a therapist told me what to feel
the folded green shorts I wore
when my husband of sixteen years left
and I grieved away ten pounds,
in my closet a mix of the old
and new skinny ones remained until,
I stared at those hanging histories
like classmates at a reunion asking
questions I don’t want to answer--
my real friends absent. The stories
no longer serving any purpose
I folded and bagged the garments,
those broken threads, to clear my way
About the Author: Connemara Wadsworth's chapbook, The Possibility of Scorpions, about the years her family lived in Iraq in the early 50’s, won the White Eagle Coffee Store Press 2009 Chapbook Contest. Her poems have most recently appeared in Prairie Schooner, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine, Valparaiso, The Kentucky Review, and The Mayo Review. “The Women” was nominated for publication in Pushcart Prize Best of the Small Presses by Bloodroot Magazine. Connemara and her husband live in Newton, Massachusetts.