reflections on navigating through dreams

In this one we’re married, my dress
of tape and baby spoons. Our house
a clock where the staircases crumble.
My love for you makes me remember
the funeral home, how I forgot
the trocars, the rose necklace urns.
A priest paints my toenails
in green glitter polish. Says I must
cleanse my father’s presence off
all the memory sticks.
We try to fix the little things, the
screws drilled into sofas, baby teeth
baked in between the tiles. You
dig in the earth and find a monkey’s
piano, a pair of green fish earrings.
Hang them on the clothesline where
they keep struggling for air. Soon they
turn into the sinuous bodies of women
while hands of children stir the lake. You
disappear, I know you’re never coming
back but I keep leaving Hawaiian bobble girls
and dressmaker’s models on the porch.
In the night I hear a woman’s voice.
Mama, please make it stop.
It’s all over before we even notice.