by Noah Jordan

My mother would tell me that she dreamed
Of a sky that was plagued with floating canvas canoes
Illuminated slightly by ornate gas lamps
So that they gave off an effect of glowing

My grandmother was with us
She was dying
Again
And we lay underneath towering columns of the museum
The smell of crisp grass lingering on our clothes and in our nostrils
Our faces warm from summer humidity

We exchanged ideas about the ominous canoes
On further inspection we would find they were adorned with thick ropes
That strained under the weight of something exponentially heavy
Something that could only be pulled by millions of heaven sent paddlers

They’re pulling the sun my mother said
In that wise and distant sound that your own voice has in your dreams
And just as the words were pushed from her lips
The sun would float from the horizon
Golden light creeping into the city with its arrival
Casting long shadows along the roads
Golden light revealed that our grandmother no longer lay beside us
Revealed that I could learn things from stories that weren’t my own
That there was no message in dreams

Only the comfort of explanation for the unexplainable

A Consulting With Apollo
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