In a Foreign Land

I love waking up in a sweat—
my clothes drenched, the ceiling fan
spinning in a whoosh blurring
my eyes. The door is closed,
but I hear sounds on the other side.
I struggle to regain composure,
and this is what I love—
cold nights causing me to shiver,
details of the window and
how the blinds slice the light
into even rows. Once you
get close enough to a dream
reality offers no shade
in our secret forests, the ghosts
now free to exist
as breath and bone. In the mind
we walk between the trees,
the majestic tips of our fingers
reaching for something familiar,
like blood that scabs
into a shape, like the skin
that covers our eyes. We are not
who we seem to be. We are
strangers, and to believe
in the body’s spirit is useful for
when I wrap around my shoulders
a quilt crocheted by my mother
and listen at the window
for the bird calls just before dawn.