I find different identities for the house
I go to in my dreams, where I wake up
and wonder, worried, how to find
my way from that beloved, empty house
in the country back to my apartment
in a distant city. Then, fully awake,
I see that I have been back all the while.
With my increasing forgetfulness
I wonder if the house I go to,
that I love without understanding it,
is the place where I will achieve
a final, complete deconstruction
of my remembered self. I look
at the house I go to in my dreams,
and feel I am becoming a statue
molded from sand. I don’t need
Edgar Hoover, or Edgar Allan
Poe to see that, forgetting and
remembering, I find in the house
in my dreams my true and
fitting home. But is it my tomb?
James McColley Eilers. Verses, translations, essays, photographs published in Subtropics, San Francisco Reader, Modern Words, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal; on websites, InTranslation, Poetry Ark, and Subprimal; in the books, How to Bury a Goldfish and Imprints. His play, Turning, was performed in San Francisco in 2001.