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In dreams, my poet-self borrows the face of a long-ago lover. He appears always on the periphery, maddeningly aloof. Like a wild thing on the edge of the wood. Lupine.

I have learned over time, over hundreds and hundreds of these dreams, not to startle him away by coming on too strong, too eager, too desperate. This takes real exertion, because whenever he appears on the scene, or I sense he is near, my heart nearly bursts with longing and everything in me wants to run headlong at him. But it is best to remain oblique; self-contained. Sometimes, then, he will linger.

I have known him just shy of forever, was in love with him as a little girl. I went for him too soon. I was willful. I was reckless. I was indiscreet. I had no notion of self-protection or restraint. I was a child who wanted what she wanted and wanted it now. I was barely a young woman who hadn't begun to understand what she wanted.

I wanted to be adored. I wanted to be powerful. I wanted to be near my father.

I looked to my father to see what it was that I should love.

So I loved the poet and I made poetry. Always for others. See what I wrote for you. I gave it all away. I gave myself away.

Now he keeps to the edge of the dream, wary of me and my intentions. My elusive sauvage, my familiar. Come nearer. Stay longer.