Traci Brimhall

My dream is to breathe the Mediterranean air.
My dream is to dance on the dinner table,
is to melt into sound, is a never-ending chase.
Follow the spiral, my dream says, because a place
is also a memory where all the shadows are white.
My dreams look like homesickness, like peeling
oranges on a hot summer day in my grandpa’s
backyard, except in the dream he is still alive
and the ocean is still blue. The moment I know
I am able to fly is when I see the tree, the leaves
swaying, and I jump.

Yes, I know my mind is a fickle little bee
doting on a thousand thoughts, but I’m getting
better at chasing my mind back to the moment
so I can see the spiderwebs making hammocks
the color of the moon. My son tries to photograph
a rainbow outside the car window. It’s impossible,
of course, this wonder, the trying to hold it.
But I do what I can. I’ve stopped waiting to enjoy
the cinnamon tea. I take deeper breaths and listen
to the flutter of strings floating down from café
speakers.