When We Sailed Away, A Dream, Because I Couldn’t Stay In Our Patria

After Bryan Shimoda

I had a dream last night that the Malecon was burning.

I had a dream last night that the balseros we built out of whatever our hands could find were strong enough, floated long enough to reach people we never thought we’d find after the depths of the ocean claimed them.

I had a dream last night that I held hands with my lover while we flew and fell and floated through the between. In the center of the city, we danced and cried, part angry, part beautiful.

I had a dream last night that a woman was made of rain, and became a wave that mourned over the empty streets and ash.

I had a dream last night that we sailed through the streets and the buildings were all the primary colors crumbling over us until we couldn’t see anymore. The colors darkened, and the rubble they left behind got stuck in our throats until we didn’t recognize each other.

I had a dream that we told each other our hopes while we were underwater and someone, somewhere, was crying but we laughed because no one can cry in the ocean.

I had a dream that we agreed on what kind of home to build and what kind of ways to say I love you and what kind of land to stand on.

I had a dream last night. I had it the night before that and the one before that. We spoke in Spanish, and you didn’t cry when I told you I had to leave. You held my hand until we got home, and the lights were on, and our hearts were full.

I had a dream last night that rest after days of the kind of weariness that food, water, or sleep can’t fix, was a word. A kind of weariness that weighs on you, and you let it, and you carry it.

I had a dream last night that the lines in the brown skin on my hands morphed into the dunes of the desert I am trapped by now, and in the space between dreaming and awake, I swam. I swam and I swam and I swam, my body covered with sand and I couldn’t find the sparkling emerald waves no matter how far I looked until I drowned in the dirt.

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