Modesty Dream
by Wendy Freebourne
Your face hovers above mine like
the wonder of new wine, your eyes
taste sweet inside me. You are
borrowed for the night. In a
soft bed, we are thrown together by
chance. In that Versailles morning
we make love,
unexpectedly. Your blushing youth like
strawberry conserve on fresh breakfast
croissants our host brings and asks me -
why? I blush too. But first,
the Lama has instructed us
to dream
a Dharma dream, our life's
portentous path, pregnant purpose.
We place our blades of grass,
one long, one short,
T for chastity, beneath an unsullied sheet
and sleep on them. Dreaming
together, I dream of you. We meet to say
goodbye, a pavement café, like France,
outside Harrods, that cornucopia
of plenty. An abundance
of bedsheet swaddles me,
fashions a white sari. Beneath,
a tight, green blouse,
emanations of the deity -
Tara. Beneath the cloth, I am naked as
sobriety. (You are naked in the bed
beside me). You offer me coffee,
I savour its aroma, choose
the simplicity of water,
but don't let the waitress serve me.
Clutching my garment
like laundry, lest it betray
my modesty, I climb
steep steps and serve myself
from the cooler near the door
of that elegant store,
which is closed to me.
I am not dressed
appropriately.
This is my life's story.
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