Who Hasn’t Dreamed of a Worse Life?
published in Fireweed
The police call you in the dream. They speak the language of
a bi-polar romantic.
Some lies and fears crave to be exhaled.
The blind goddess drifts away, her hands
fat as cherubs loosening the sky in your mouth –
pearls or rain or something or other
thrums on their chests,
the cops coughing up clouds.
Sweetheart, they’re flying over.
Must see you. And the wedding party
showered with rice and bullets?
Suspicious? Oh, yes.
You can escape. Just in the nick of time.
But then if it’s not the police
it’s the job the husband the kid.
You might not want to wake up.
You might prefer