Do the Dead Dream?
A poem by Julia R. DeStefano
Lately, I have been visited by two Mourning Doves. One dove in particular has begun the very curious habit of perching atop the window bird feeder and gazing at me for extended periods of time. It is said that Mourning Doves recognize emotional disharmony within us — their presence asking us to go within to release our trauma and internal conflict. All I know is — I began this poem shortly after March 9, 2019. I finished it tonight, July 1, 2020. Perhaps, just perhaps, I have my Mourning Dove to thank for that.
Do the Dead Dream?
To the Lumberjack-of-all-Trades in the plaid shirt —
you had more paint on you
than the walls you had me up against.
Shaking off dust clouds of drywall in the doorway.
The hole in my soul needed filling by a poet,
and you knew it.
Plastering smooth the uneven surface
with unmatched precision.
Handling my jagged edges
with trademark wit and sarcasm.
To the Lion —
you needed no Love Potion #9
to dance divinely as the crowd roared.
No mood-altering potion required
for people to love you,
yet you thought so
as you gave of yourself without restraint —
my words lost at the bottom of each glass.
The band has hung up its instruments
like the guitars mounted on your wall
amid the line drawings
depicting a storied life partially-lived.
To the Traveler –
can I tape you back up like the car –
a little makeshift mending
for one more flea market;
hauling of amplifiers on thin ice;
meeting of the lips at a red light;
three-hour-tour, destination unplanned?
The trip will never be the same.
Your ghost haunts the bargain bins,
rummaging for treasure in the afterlife.
To the Artist –
who am I if no longer infused with the colors
of you who painted me
with the sunny palette
even when you became the dark —
that voodoo you do?
The canvas lay bare.
The book we poured our hearts into, unpublished.
The portrait, never taken.
No more insomnia-driven poetry
or frantic mood-swung messaging.
Hyde scared me some,
but he was all I knew.
Then Jekyll came back.
To the Sharer of the Sunrise –
I was consumed by more pain
than you will ever know
when I swam to shore.
Oozing more hurt than the Tom Waits record
we would lie awake and listen to.
But like your ashes scattered in the wind,
it’s time to let you go on up to the House.
Too late for
be mine
when you’d made me
maybe.
© Julia R. DeStefano
