I dreamt I had a baby, though I couldn’t—no.
My dream-self took time to unravel it.
She seemed to be mine—but the dates—and who?
Her warmth, so lovely. And—it seemed—I loved her too.
I cradled her in my arms, and no one took her
from me, so I thought she must be mine.
We were at a house party with people who chattered
like kindness, and afternoon light that poured like golden tea.
She cooed up at me through a lacy knitted
something. I looked around, did anyone see?
She lifted a small hand to touch my face,
pull my attention down, and then she spoke.
Spoke? I swooned, holding her up to the room.
“Hey everybody, did you hear? Look over here!”
Faces simply smiled, glanced, as if to say:
of course a baby of mine would be this advanced.
She turned in my arms and set her baby feet
upon the tiles. “You are amazing!” I said,
“You can walk, too, and all alone?” “Yes,”
she said, with a smile, tipping her head to suggest
I come along. I followed her gaze
through the nodding guests to a hallway and a door—
your standard dream metaphor, I guess—but I went
with her, curious and sure she’d know the way.