Iris Dream Sestina
Iris remembers her linear dreams.
Cinematic scenes follow one another
with a logic divorced from the night.
The scenes are well lit. Nothing comes too close
for comfort. Objects mean exactly what
they seem to mean. Iris likes that fact most.
She wakes with clear recollections. And most
of her programs are travelogue dreams,
larded with factoids. This sedan is what
they were driving when she heard…it. Another
car passed theirs, and it was so very close
the song from its dashboard filled the night.
Iris remembers riding through the long night
in the back seat. She would have been, at the most,
six since the car was small, and round, and close.
It is dark and winter. When Iris dreams
the cold and dark, her dreams have another
name: memory. The snapshot what-was-what.
Like radio waves carrying the what
of an event but no why, every night
carries Iris along, to another
spot on the dial. The stations are small. Most,
framed by speckled static, re-run-like dreams
of tent meetings. Packed, sweating and skin-close.
When Iris’ mother was young, she lived close
to a garage. She loved cars, and knew what
made them tick. When Iris has cars in her dreams
they are clean, well-tuned, and they run all night
on a single tank of gas. Sedans most
likely to succeed mirror one another.
Their chrome is never cloudy. Another
way in which dreams and life aren’t close.
Iris notices rain spots, and knows most
drives were short, light, definite. One knew what
one was doing. You followed your map. Night
is safe, as Iris remembers in dreams.
When she must dream herself into night,
she is another, altered, Iris. So close,
so foreign to all she, waking, loves most.