In my dream I am asked to deliver
A spider to Jacques Derrida
At his home on the outskirts of Paris.
His books, I hear, are very special
Though I have never read them.
The spider is nothing special—
No hourglass or bitter fur—
Yet our journey is difficult
And I do not have shoes or socks
And I must seek the help of several
Older women to find my way
To empty buses and empty streets.
I think this dream is really about
My job where I am asked to produce
Deliverables, not knowing what they are.
The spider rests on a sweater and does not move.
My French comes back to me
And I am—for a moment—fluent.