I knew a girl who dreamed
there were manatees
in the Garden of St. Anthony.
Back there, with the statue
of Christ, where the Creoles dueled,
the air was filled with warm water…
Silent, maternal, benign,
they floated, fed, lived out
their natural lives.
And we talked about our mothers,
submarines, lethal as sharks
who never slept, were always
stalking us. I don’t know
what happened to her,
the girl who dreamed the dream.
Someone said she killed herself,
another that she moved away
in the middle of the night,
told no one why. Maybe she
still dreams of manatees
in the Garden of St. Anthony,
watches them float and turn
in green living water, the mothers
we never knew.
Grey Sparrow Journal 