In the dream,
a priest said
it was time
to be entirely
adult.
Mother was bedridden
because of diabetes,
and her hands
had been
amputated.
Still, it was Mother
and not some creature
with a lolling tongue.
“Thank you for
the presents,”
she said kindly.
“Come back soon.”
But the elegant
priest lingered,
demanding,
“Tell me
what you believe,”
as if it were her time,
though it plainly wasn’t.
When he repeated,
“Tell me what
you believe,
woman,”
I grew
afraid
and went inside
my head, where I can
nearly always find
some dandelions
hugging the turf
with those silvery gray
stems and lemony
blossoms
that transform
any landscape,
and then I heard
Mother lifting her stumps,
where the hands had been,
telling him, “I believe
in these living hands.”