This poem is taken from Stand 211, 14(3) September - November 2016.
No dream of mine
has been more transparent,
less lost in the clotted symbolism
born of crowded needs: I was bending
toward my son—about four in the dream though
now 23 and headed for graduate school abroad—and
told him—as if time traveling
—Don’t ever worry, I’ve
seen you as a grown man and you’re to be a wonderful man.
I was reminding
myself that he was all grown
up and well beyond worrying about, and
sure enough, when I told my son of this dream he
seemed to look inward—to the grown man he’d become—
with the same look of trust he, as a boy, gave to me in the dream