Mortal Love Marah Hoffman
Fourteen years old, I sent God letters. Sometimes suggesting that He put the thought of me in your sleep seeped brain. I imagined the colors he would stir into your subconscious: scarlet, rose, amber, gold. How slowly I would take on the hues of womanhood. At eighteen, still just your friend, I asked what you were thinking. You said, “Your lips.” You admitted I made you confused about love. And the only thing that unconfused you were your dreams. Me—an ardent yellow light amid vapors in the piss-smelling alley behind your Philadelphia home. My palm in yours on the peach Delaware shore. I hadn’t known I was being listened to till you told me about your dreaming. It convinced me of the existence of the divine. On our fourth anniversary, I told you to dream me the aftermath of our inevitable marriage. An aftermath where the shrapnel isn’t made of my satin bridal gown and your optimism. Something tangy and tangible. Tell me every detail, so I may intrude in your unconscious mind. Like I did your heart. But I won’t return the favor. Because you would see dolphins stranded and mermaids slain on our old beach. And if you were to ask for explanation, I’d say, “So quick bright things come to confusion.”
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