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A poem for my mother, July 15

When she was dying
And I was in a different country
I dreamt I was there with her
Flying over the ocean very quickly,
And arriving in the room like a dream
And I was a dream, but the meaning was more
Than a dream has – it was a moving over time
And land, over water, to get love across
Fast enough, to be there, before she died,
To lean over the small, huddled figure,
In the dark, and without bothering her
Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air,
A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one,
And when I woke, none of this had happened,
She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

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