Sometimes in my dreams,
I am with you, Stasia. We are lost
in a forest of light: two small shadows,
slipping along the floor of heaven,
trying to find our way home.
I whisper to you:
Our bodies are like empty rooms.
And then you, laughing:
Listen to me Tio,
that is because
we have nowhere to go.
Imagine we’re not lost.
Imagine we’re in a garden
where no one gets lost except God:
nobody Tio, not even you.
Now, imagine the shrubs are trimmed
like little geese and little fishes
and that the garden is in Gamboa
and it’s Saturday, January the Eighth
in the year of Our Lord Twenty-Two Hundred and Five
and I’m standing at the altar
of La Iglesia Nuestro Senora del Buen Consejo
marrying the dashingly handsome Raul Cochez Maduro
against the desperate wishes
of His Majesty the King of Spain
and the Seven Sorrowful Sisters of Doom,
who are on every street corner, watching me like flies.
Imagine that if you will.
So I did. I imagined it.
Then I had somewhere to go, Anastasia.
And so did you.