The Marques Dreams of Her
︎︎︎ C. Sandbatch
︎ May 30, 2026
Dido at Carthage?
Or the same girl, buying carnations
at a market in California.
Are you still real?
still moving?
Moving beyond my eyes
that found you.
Your image, your ghostly presence,
divine enough, yes,
to deliver the wound—
or not.
A rusting arrow in the chest.
The dart that pierces me
& marks me also blessed.
The one that makes me glad,
content, & full of grief,
whispers:
"Let me dress the wound."
I move through unearned pain,
burning, strangely at ease.
Having confessed,
I can almost rest.
Or the same girl, buying carnations
at a market in California.
Are you still real?
still moving?
Moving beyond my eyes
that found you.
Your image, your ghostly presence,
divine enough, yes,
to deliver the wound—
or not.
A rusting arrow in the chest.
The dart that pierces me
& marks me also blessed.
The one that makes me glad,
content, & full of grief,
whispers:
"Let me dress the wound."
I move through unearned pain,
burning, strangely at ease.
Having confessed,
I can almost rest.