TO THE BLACK KNIGHTS THAT WERE NEVER WRITTEN A LAY

TO THE BLACK KNIGHTS THAT WERE NEVER WRITTEN A LAY

I dreamt of you when reading Sir Degaré; I dreamt of you in Middle English, you are a dream of a dream hiding behind every romance; I dreamt of you in English class; I dreamt of your chivalry that shattered gendered norms; I dreamt of you dressed in black, javelin beneath your arms, sword ready to strike; I dreamt of how in Faerie they would not know how to love you; I dreamt of you being spat at in Camelot; I dreamt of your journey to find your father; I dreamt of what they would call you; I dreamt of you dreaming: a pearl, a river, a green knight with a double-sided axe; I dreamt of the maiden you would marry, would you go back to the Moorish Lands to be wed? I dreamt of your conception, of your mother having nurtured you, telling you to be more than just a knight; I dreamt of you being arrested; I dreamt of you being accused on adultery; I dreamt that you wept because no knight would respect your honor; I dreamt you swooned, that you cradled near a dying fire in a strange land; I dreamt of you in Middle English: your journey through the forest with a rungu, you slayed a dragon, you fought a knight, whose life you spare because of charité, you sought your father, who was a sultan in the Moorish Lands, Arthur turned you away from his court, no one would offer you lodging, you were at your wits-end, this is not a romance—but I dreamt of you. The dream wasn’t happy or sad, it was just a dream.