Sacred Loss

This morning I dreamed
of sacred objects misplaced,
left vulnerable.
Anyone could come along
and pick them up—
even the part of me
that does not pay attention.
Sacredness left out
             not to weather
             and grow wise
but
to be pushed aside as the table is set for dinner,
to make room—for a week’s worth of news,
dress-up gowns with the hem come loose,
toys that teach colours
and numbers
and the way of shapes.
My heart is stretched out
on the laundry line, the school
wants to meet with me,
my partner hums, while dusting.
I speak in my dream.
They were just rocks
and leather strips for my hair.
I will receive more.
But I do not admit
what is gone
is irretrievable
and leaves a hole that defies mending.
When I wake I realize:

I have been looking for a lover all my life,
but no one will ever caress me
like this loss.