I keep dreaming about a bull in New York City-
you are also there, still alive.
We are trying to recreate that trip
we took to NYC some years back
from a time when you still loved me
and wanted to show me that Dali at the Met.
I am trying to stuff the itinerary
of that previous trip into shoes
that are too small for our feet
and only know how to waltz around
in arguments around our 6th floor apartment.
We keep marring the day with our fights.
You don’t understand
why this day has to be just so
and I don’t know how to tell you.
You are still mad at me
when we stumble upon a big zoo
in the middle of Central Park.
At the center of the zoo
is a huge black bull
too big for his pen,
who is pacing and pawing,
with pent-up restlessness
over his patch of dirt
and the crowds that watch.
Standing next to me, I feel
your sadness for the bull
your shame for participating
in the story of his suffering.
I am about to reach for your hand,
but am distracted by a passer-by
and when I turn back,
you are gone.
I hail a cab to look for you in a city I love
that now feels frightening
without you next to me.
The rest of the dream is spent
searching streets of smeared faces
hoping I’ll see you again
but also knowing the impossibility of it-
a feeling so close to reality
that in the morning I am unable to tell
if I have stepped over
the line between sleep and waking.
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