Oriana Ivy

It was a dream of heaven: being home,
above my river-avenue of poplars,
and my wind-bridegroom in my arms—
maybe because at bedtime I read,
Music is the memory of what never happened,
and heard the slow movement of the Brahms sextet
in B-flat, remembering how in youth
I would have said, "B-soft"—the melody,
like a summer that far north,
sent me a memory of what never happened,
long ago, in my room in Warsaw—
odd, since in dreams I am never home—
But that night it was night, I was in my bed,
and the green-eyed motorcycle rider I met
camping in the Mazurian Lakes,
and waited for that whole year,
walking the leafy length of Warsaw,
had found me at last, his weight
the sweet burden of everything unknown.
Only now, too late, I know
America will not make you happy.
Only now I have heard the music
of what never happened,
though it did: he’d come to me
in my other life, the one unlived
in the country I left. In that
unwhispered life, I had no plans.
I wanted only to feel
his weight on my body.
In the music that would never stop,
we lay dreamless in the quiet dark,
far from time, not needing anything.