I Am Not The Dream In your reality, I have no pulse. I heard you whisper. Did you know I felt you whisper? I heard you whisper my name, and you put it to a dream. See the swell of my warm lips, the fire of my father’s eyes, the sure lift of my mother’s chin? Blood rushes here; the blood of a thousand generations of proud lives in me. And I begged you. I begged you to see me, to know me. I begged you to love me, while a thousand generations of proud ears closed themselves to spare me shame. You turned away. I prayed for you; prayed for you to know touch in a place real for you. I prayed for you, while a thousand generations offered voices to heaven for me. And one morning, I was awakened by a voice. My voice, the voice of a thousand generations, called your name. Sunlight warmed lips, lifted proud chin, and opened eyes to see. And the face of a thousand generations of proud looked sharp from my great grandmother’s rosewood mirror; looked into my eyes and asked why I had cried your name. I touched a finger to real blood warmed lips and smiled. And with the voice of a thousand generations of proud I answered for all of us, ‘Hush now, he was only a dream’. Shirley Alexander © 2009
