Dagne Forrest

In the dream the fire started
downstairs, as it always does,
in the middle of everything,

a flaming bowl barely more
than a fist swirling to absorb
our book of arguments, the late

evening cards, lost socks, the latest
to-do list, all atop the cat-scarred
carpet, tilting oddly but still ours

for now. I somehow knew we’d lose
the whole house, but we had time
in the dream. The dog still lived,

knew to follow me out to the car,
wait on the backseat, the windows
down, runaway heat gilding the air.

In the dream, I called out to everyone
who could hear they’d better run,
grab their keys and things they’d left

in the dream, and I searched for the fire
proof box of our life’s documents,
only it was nowhere to be found.

In the dream it seemed I had time
to wonder what else to take,
if anyone had thumbed 911, yet

in the dream, you didn’t share
my urgency, slowly drawing
a salted bath, the water greening.

I wondered if you would escape
through vapor. For me, smoke
the only way I could see. In the haze

I decided there was nothing
worth taking beyond the limited hearts
that beat next to my own, nothing

beyond that one pale blue summer
weight sweater, because I knew later
I’d feel the cold, later, waiting

on the limitless shores on the wrong
side of the dream when all that remained
would be one ashen backward glance.