EMBARKATION

My girlhood home—half brick, half siding—
is floating across the sea. Water swells
the avenues, drowns parks and shopping
malls. But my house floats and rocks, the waves
pulsing gray at the window pane. I check
the latch. It's snug. Gone are the churches,
the circular drives, the fire station. A hawk
searches for dry land, but there are no islets,
only pewter waves. I kneel on the pillow,
grip Grandma's oak bed frame. I am homesick in
my homestead, dealt whitecaps and undertow.
I steer the headboard of this galleon,
this rancho, chateau, shack, its foundation lost
to endless deep. I will be wed in just three weeks.

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I wrote "Embarkation" for a class assignment to peruse one's journal to find raw material. This poem is essentially a translated dream.