I dreamt I saw a lady run across Loring Park's duck pond in a tight leather mini- skirt and a red tank top barely covering her breasts. Her feet slipped into black spiked high-heels. Her hair, long and black. She walks on water.
Around her on the hills people pour down like mud after a spring thaw. They come by the hundreds. "Mistress, Mistress," they chant as though in a religious gathering. I sit in awe dispute with myself, not really being who I am. I run, while all around me people sit and chant for this woman who walks on water.
I scurry into a coat check closet filled with boxes upon boxes. A little old lady has gotten lost in there too. I tug her arm trying to hide her from sight. She is carrying a plastic bag and when I pull it tips from her hands and all of these toys go spilling to the ground. As she bends over to pick them up, a guard comes to the door and orders, "Lily, come with us." She looks at me briefly, her brown eyes filled with sorrow, and yanks herself loose from my grip. The guard never notices me.
I crawl beneath a sleeping bag draped over gymnasium folding chairs. tented away from sight of anyone, I sleep.
Waking, I find myself roaming down a rusted street. Everything around me is rust. There is a power line erected above the river, all rust. The grass is rust, the trees are rust, the water, rust. I hear stomping of feet, non-consistent, yet persistent. I clench my hands around a part of the electrical power structure, and pull myself up. I climb to the second tier and look below me. Wires of rust sway from my weight. Guards walk beneath. They never look up.
I'm in a bathroom, suddenly I am myself and sitting next to me is the person I used to be. Hearing voices on the outside of the door, we huddle in a corner. The bath is filthy. The door opens slowly, muffled voices hang in the air like humidity in July. I look at me, me at I. We look toward the door.
"I'm just going to take a shower, and then I'll be right out. Wait here." A strained voice says. No reply.
Dark, blank eyes peer around the open door, we duck down unseen. I poke my head out, the door closes. A woman stands there. Eyes brown, furious. "I know you're there, you can stop hiding." I run.
I'm walking down an alley filled with overstuffed garbage bags spilling out onto the concrete. I hear a motorcycle engine echo off the decaying walls. You drive up, a man's arms harnessed around your waist.
You smile at me, unlock his fingers and get off.
"Come, will you help me wash my hair?"
I don't answer, just follow.
We walk into a room, black in color. I look at you, you at me. You place your hands on your head and remove the blond wig you are wearing. Your hair is short dark brown.
Mary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft.