Dream of Knives
by Alfred A. Yuson
Last night I dreamt of a knife
I had bought for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply for its worth—short dagger
with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased he would be upon my return
from this journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp points of dreams?
