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Shy No More

Dreamed 2008/8/13 by Wayan

Five glass plates. Portraits of a girl.
Adult eyes in a frame child-small.
Hair a frizz of bronze. Wide face
freckled in three of the five plates;
bloom and fade with stress.

The five record an awkward teen
romance. Sink in the scene
of plate one. Patiently she tamed
a lanky, brilliant, skittish boy.
Autistic, no--but abused, perhaps?

Though he adores her, he's so shy!
Flinches a touch. He can't believe
she'd pursue his crippled love.
Nor can I. But I'll give him this--
his work-arounds are ingenious.

Walking on a beach, he finds
a twisty driftwood staff whose head
crooks to an equine silhouette.
He makes the staff a stand-in self,
chants "I am Horsehead Man!"

Bolder, bolder he is in role!
She breathes in risk, embraces
him-and-staff as one.
And our hybrid flinches

On a red-green towel they spoon
though he must face away, or...
still too much for him. She
hugs him, snuggles--scarce a twitch!
Roundabout, but works.

To a point. In later plates,
she loses patience--speculates
he's not just shy or hurt,
but indulges, even cultivates,
his twitchy fears and quirks.

With each panel I sink more
into his role, and live the scene.
Why not? I love her too.
And trouble shrouds him too tight
to notice all her needs:

She's body-insecure: "I look dumb.
Scrawny. Nothing breasts.
Stupid freckles when I have them."
It's true: the Tall Dark Handsome
see but a child unless they plumb

those soul-deep wide-set eyes.
Her private dread: if she truly heals
his body-fears, a Robbin' Bigbreast
will snap him up! Or he'll go wild
in his new cock-freedom.

I live the last scene (a freckled one);
I strive to ease her stress.
Nude myself, I peel her summerdress.
Back she leans on me, awakening my cock
but, too, to stretch her back. Swan neck

meets my hands for a massage.
What thrumming cords I pluck!
Rock her body, knead the bread
of her tense but slowly trusting head.
I slowly wonder: why obey

his moldy neurological script,
to starve us both amore?
Let's rewrite that scene!
We've wanted love so long--
O throw out the score!

Write (and writhe!) our sexual duet.
No mask now. Improvise a love.
Shy no more! It's time to get.
There I woke. She was no one
I'd seen in waking or in dream.

I grew up scared and scarred--let down
lovers who couldn't heal old flinch.
But at last that work is done.
This love's to come: I know her not an inch.
Go out, eyes open. Seek this one.

photo of a girl's face covered in freckles.


I share history with the lovers. Both my family and community taught me I was defective; it's been a long unlearning.

The poem's critique of indulging your fears and scars wasn't a later interpolation but in the dream itself. An unconscious that can psychoanalysize itself so baldly needs no symbolic interpretation! So I take the dream at least partly as a literal alert: to watch for her.

This is Dreamverse #3. I'm trying to write one dream-poem daily. So far, my dreams are enthusastically cooperating: I wake with a short vivid suitable dream each morn.

LISTS AND LINKS: beach dreams - masks and disguises - autism - healing from abuse - shyness, embarrassment and shame - body image - massage and bodywork - sexy dreams - sexual awakening and first love - romantic advice - transcendent dreams - altered photos and collage - dream-poems - Dreamverses project - the next Dreamverse: The Doctor Kills a Tern - three weeks later, the same girl returns in Small Miracles

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