By William Doreski
In my dream a bronze statue booms
with the hollow sound of the surf
breaking against black stone ledges.
The statue lifts its arms and gestures,
but I don’t understand. I’m hiding
in a guest house mostly vacant.
The bronze man knows where I am.
His voice stomps down a hallway,
shaking the many locked doors.
As he reaches mine, I awaken
to a pale ecstasy of windstorm.
Hemlocks fluster. Leafless oaks
pretend nothing is happening.
I fear wind more than nuclear war,
but when I step outdoors the flux
impales me so gently I feel
nothing of eighty years of pain,
only a blush of self-exposure.
Time to start over again, the pines
tossing their tops to assure me
that mutual destruction still applies.
Maybe later I’ll lunch with friends
and tell them about my dream.
Maybe the wind will consolidate
by then, and the bronze man, when
I meet him, will seem a memory
rather than unassailable fact.
—
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.