Un­spo­ken, at Break­fast

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Anna Jack­son

I dreamed last night that you were not you but much younger, as young as our daugh­ter tun­ing out your in­struc­tions, her eyes not look­ing at a thing around her, a fra­grance sur­round­ing her prob­a­bly from her freshly washed hair, though I like to think it is her dreams still sur­round­ing her from her sleep. In my sleep last night I dreamed you were much younger, and I was younger too and had all the power— I could say any­thing but needed to say noth­ing, and you, lovely like our daugh­ter, wor­ried you might be talking too much about your­self. I stopped you in my arms, pressed my face up close to yours, whis­pered into your ear, your curls around my mouth, that you were my fa­vorite topic. That was my dream, and that is still my dream, that you were my fa­vorite topic— but in my dream you were much younger, and you were not you.

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