Dreams of the Dead

This morning, I woke from another dream of my father. How to describe the experience of being with the dead again? The dream supplants reality, the dream is reality. Waking is disorienting. I don't remember much, only that we spoke and embraced and, as always, I believed he was alive again. I was desperate to hold onto that delusional world of a living, breathing father. The images are inside me, like a word I can't recall but that I know I've heard and must speak. Maybe it's best to forget. I woke to a racing heart and could not catch my breath, my whole body ravaged from dreaming him alive. My father--if he knew how I ache for him, if he knew how I am drowning. If only we could hear, see, know one another. His death is killing me.

I wake and he cannot wake. I dream and he cannot dream. Even the pain I feel is lost to him, he who feels nothing, is nothing. I want to see his bones, the ones Plath thought "would do." I have to get back to him, that's what the dreams tell me. I have to carve up the earth and sink down, as far as I can go, and find a way to him. I need his body, his arms, his hands, his voice. His voice. The one I'll never hear again, the one I have no record of. The voice I hear in my dreams, the voice I imagine in my mind, which has become a grave for him. Decomposition. Decay. That's all my mind is. He's there, he's always there.