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I had a dream of her
in Lisbon
my wife in a bright silk gown
slapping and brushing the dirt
of the street off her dress
and with tears in her eyes
she tore it apart

in her delirium
she said it was all from me
the dirt
the scratches on her elbows
the whiskey on her breath
I was her cruel deity

when I woke,
I heard her stirring in the kitchen
her empty spot starred by street lamps
peering through our blinds

I came behind her
wrapped my arms around her stomach
and in the same delirium of my
imagined wife, the one in the
yellow silk,
I said,
“honey, I’m sorry.”