I Dreamed of Obama on the Night of His First Election
He stirred the coals of my dwindling campfire. We were alone. Blue tendrils of smoke punctuated the Mesozoic haze like a scene from Jonny Quest. Up and down the basin Americans smoldered. The tent flap behind us fell open meaningfully and my voice was low, I’m unnerved now by what I confided. His hand at rest on my knee. We camped at the edge of a rain forest that hissed like a plane crash, like the mouth of a beast. Tangled and treacherous. Our ways on the eve of battle—tender and lit from within. This is the last time, I whispered. I can’t keep caring this much, either way.
