morning dream #3

We're having dinner with just my mom and brother, outside in the front driveway of the house I grew up in, in the frozen snow.
It's midnight blue with a waxing moon out, 
but somehow we aren't cold,
and somehow my mother isn't mad that you're a woman.

We don't need coats, and we sit at an empty table, the long polished wooden table from my childhood.
There's no shine from the moonlight. I don't remember the chairs.

The funny thing is, I'm going the way of someone that, not only 
you could not bring home to your family,
but that you could not even bring home to mine.

You know, don't you, in the back of your mind, somewhere--
in the back of the stacks--
and shelved right next to that, you also know you could keep me roped to you,
by the fucking heart,
until you take the first chance to leave with the one you actually love.

I'd like to believe you don't, and that you have no idea,
but I didn't even need sparrows to land on my shoulders and sing in my ears to find out about the last one I thought I could love;
footfalls in the vineyard instead of whispers through the grapevine.

I don't think you looked at me the entire dream, but I was also staring up at the crystals in the void,
at the moon I long to become.