Sarah White Verse-Virtual 2019 June

June 2019

Note: I seldom use dreams as the basis of poems. Hearing last night’s dream recited at breakfast is a bore to most people. Even the dreamer herself will have lost interest by lunchtime unless the dream has some of the impact of waking experience. As for the dream in this poem, somehow it turned into a poem, and then into an elegy for my mother. I live in New York City, and divide my time between poetry and painting.

MHM (1900-1992)

I dreamed a dollar
hurled its flimsy body
at the slot of a change machine.

It missed,
flapped away a bit,
hurled again, and missed,
as if the narrow
slot of change
refused it.

I saw the dollar fly
from the electric eye
and disappear
into a nearby room.

A man pursued,
took the bill,
and patted it
in the dark of his pocket,
then returned, put four coins
in the slot.

Dozens more
spilled out:
pennies, nickels, dimes.

Are pennies not
a dime a dozen,
are sparrows sold
at two a penny? Mother,

were you not worth more
than any number of sparrows?

from Cleopatra Haunts the Hudson (Spuyten Duyvil, 2007)

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