By Erin O’Loughlin

Before
When sleep comes, I dream of the things you said to me, your honeyed foreign tongue pouring through my head like forgotten poetry. The distraction of you, your hands on my flesh, your dark eyes, with the soft crinkles at their edges, your feet clattering on the carpetless floors, down into the garden to your waiting taxi. I dream that you are here.

Together
We lie side by side, but I am adrift in a vast empty space, an ocean where I float endlessly on my own warm currents. But now you are there, over the horizon. You are a continent of reassurance, your presence a new and solid thing. My adventuring from island to island is a thing of the past – we have found our nation in each other. With you nearby, I dream that I am floating—sovereign, but no longer alone.

Gravid
My nights bring visions full of wanton corporeality; red beating hearts and golden light through translucent alien skin. I am running, I am being chased, I am free, I am terrified. Hormones dance anarchically through my bloodstream, then leave me cocooned together with this unbounded potential that pulses within me. It whispers the secrets of the universe. When I wake I have forgotten them, and the only shadow they leave are the fluttery kicks and wriggling in my womb. You put a hand on my belly and proffer a sleepy smile at what we have made together.

Delivered
Light angles down through the water. I am submerged somewhere in the darkness, but I can see the sunlight glittering above me, and I feel the tug of the currents pulling me up. I try to dive deeper, into that soothing blackness below me, but a cry pierces through the water, wraps itself around my ankle and won’t let go. I am netted and dragged back to wakefulness. I nudge you—it is your turn—and roll back over. I dream of unbroken sleep.

Disillusioned
You brush past me without a word. You are busy. We are tired. You reach out to me, but there are things to do, children to feed, days to get through. I turn back to you, ashamed of my disinterest, but you are gone. I find an old love letter, the Kavafis poem you sent me, and daydream of the time your touch woke tremors in my skin.

Rekindled
My head is heavy with wine and the slow softness of the sunset. Summer evenings seem to last longer again, now that the whirling, sharp-edged joy of our children no longer spills from every room. Days are timeless, relaxed, filled with ourselves and with each other. You reach for me, and it’s too early in the evening for dreams.

After
I sit in the ray of sun by the window, watching the restless shuffle of souls in limbo. The nurse has bought me tea, but it is too milky. You always knew how I liked my tea. I wait: for lunchtime, for the children to visit with their unruly broods and their flashes of joy, for the lady who comes once a week and does my hair. You used to love to run your fingers through my hair. I dream that you are here.