(For Don Fuhrer and those from my Language of Thursday)
I dreamt of K.
In my dream, he was named K “Colin” D.
We were on a road that looked like the asphalt road in the University of the Philippines. He was with this girl and a little boy. He was being his usual self---- elusive, this time older and more of a poet. Almost looking like a lined Marne Kilates.
He was still experimenting--- in his quiet way---- eccentric, hidden. The little boy was his son, the girl (likely in her early 20s) said. All she wanted was for him to finish his studies so that he would be “Dr.” He agreed to meet with her to give her money for the little boy.
Then, we walked--- he with J and I with the girl and the little boy following.
K showed J this car, a red Mustang convertible, his car.
J quipped, “Poet na poet ah.”
K said, “Get in. Try it man! We’re winners!”
Later on, K and I were in bed, lovered in white sheets.
We were talking a little, mostly quiet, the way we usually were. I stroked his behind through the sheet and he undulated. I had wondered then how it would have felt if I had made love to him in that hotel room.
It seemed his family wanted him to return to the States, that he needed to.
I asked him if he wanted to leave.
“No,” he said, “I’m leaving to get money for the boy.”
He wanted his son, but not the girl.
Then I found myself in his house, with the little boy dressed as a girl with a wig, red lipstick.
I watched: K was moving over him--- in an S--- I recognized in a poem he made; like the action itself being fit into the poem, space sinking into the poem.
I watched K sink himself into the boy, felt horror.
That boy, a girl, had a name--- something like Alexandra Addler or Alfreda Adler or Alfreda Hoffman. She had died then, violently, in that way.
Was she raped?
Was she his mother?
I moved the dream on: I was back on the asphalt road. I was with--- We were carrying books in the University of the Philippines grounds that almost looked like a cemetery.
He stopped walking and kissed me.
Publicly.
I felt so loved.
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