SPRING 2013 (Issue 78)

Mary Tautin Moloney


In the dream, her heart was a fist of dough.
The secret was in its beating: rise, rise.
With each expansion, rivers erupted
the dusty skin. Her geography shifted.

In the dream, her seaside neighbors noticed a change.
Some guessed an affair. Others, a child.
The older ones touched their faces. But everyone
felt a longing they had long forgotten.

She longed for the drama of birth, her head engaged
in the pelvic floor. She would move slowly,
this time, memorize the muscled walls
and how they held her as she was pushed

away. In the dream, she climbed the mountain path
and witnessed sun, then shadow. Dusk.
Her heart went on its work, losing the scent
of just-created. She missed herself, suddenly,

the yeast and yolk. Air rushed from her mouth.
The fist retracted. Her seaside neighbors
noticed a change. Each rose to their longing,
and the longing reduced to a smaller space.