I had sex with a famous poet last night

    and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered

    because I was married to someone else，

    because I wasn't supposed to have been drinking，

    because I was in fancy hotel room

    I didn't recognize. I would have told you

    right off this was a dream， but recently

    a friend told me， write about a dream，

    lose a reader and I didn't want to lose you

    right away. I wanted you to hear

    that I didn't even like the poet in the dream， that he has

    four kids， the youngest one my age， and I find him

    rather unattractive， that I only met him once，

    that is， in real life， and that was in a large group

    in which I barely spoke up. He disgusted me

    with his disparaging remarks about women.

    He even used the word "Jap"

    which I took as a direct insult to my husband who's Asian.

    When we were first dating， I told him

    "You were talking in your sleep last night

    and I listened， just to make sure you didn't

    call out anyone else's name." My future-husband said

    that he couldn't be held responsible for his subconscious，

    which worried me， which made me think his dreams

    were full of blond vixens in rabbit-fur bikinis.

    but he said no， he dreamt mostly about boulders

    and the ocean and volcanoes， dangerous weather

    he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.

    And I said， "I dream only of you，"

    which was romantic and silly and untrue.

    But I never thought I'd dream of another man——

    my husband and I hadn't even had a fight，

    my head tucked sweetly in his armpit， my arm

    around his belly， which lifted up and down

    all night， gently like water in a lake.

    If I passed that famous poet on the street，

    he would walk by， famous in his sunglasses

    and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows，

    without so much as a glance in my direction.

    I know you're probably curious about who the poet is，

    so I should tell you the clues I've left aren't

    accurate， that I've disguised his identity，

    that you shouldn't guess I bet it's him……

    because you'll never guess correctly

    and even if you do， I won't tell you that you have.

    I wouldn't want to embarrass a stranger

    who is， after all， probably a nice person，

    who was probably just having a bad day when I met him，

    who is probably growing a little tired of his fame——

    which my husband and I perceive as enormous，

    but how much fame can an American poet

    really have， let's say， compared to a rock star

    or film director of equal talent？ Not that much，

    and the famous poet knows it， knows that he's not

    truly given his due. Knows that many

    of these young poets tugging on his sleeve

    are only pretending to have read all his books.

    But he smiles anyway， tries to be helpful.

    I mean， this poet has to have some redeeming qualities， right？

    For instance， he writes a mean iambic.

    Otherwise， what was I doing in his arms.