May

I dreamed this morning we lived in Madrid, apart.
I had to leave my flat; together we went
To another Spanish city, where your parents
Lived in an old stone house in the city’s heart.

Your father said that I could stay a week.
How sweet it was, at last, to live with you!
We strolled around the city, just us two,
On broad sidewalks shaded by tall trees.

I tried to order in Spanish in a café
But it kept coming out Norwegian. I had to force
It, word by word. “Jeg – yo. Er — soy. Fra – de.
Norge.” The waiter shook his head, of course.

I repeated it: “Norge.” Then “Norvège.” That
Didn’t work either. Then I remembered: “Noruega.”
He brightened, nodded. “Yo soy de Noruega.”
The three of us laughed. But one thing I didn’t
Understand: why had I left Madrid?
And exactly what had happened to my flat?