In the dream it was clear: you were married
to your captor and your life together stirred
in a medieval chamber. So you fled
into the dream’s strange landscape of joy, something
between the poppy fields outside Rouen and the colors
that wove through One Thousand and One Nights.
You were gone, though your body stayed behind and rose
in the morning. It filled the dishwasher with noticeably less
zeal and sat beside your husband
for the final episodes of House of Cards. The physical world,
Plato said: what comes to be and passes away
but never really is. Which is to say, outside
you were somewhere else, having an infinite life.