Hope everyone enjoys the ludicrous but oddly relevant symbolism of dreams as much as I do. Love, Rita
Monday, I dreamt you took me hostage.
Lisa the Flirt had baked you a birthday cake
months after the actual date
and I had followed her to your place
as I would follow anyone.
She rang the bell seven times
when you hadn’t had time to answer
the first. Once inside, she bobbed around
doing a bad Scottish Sword-Dance
in the hiking boots she wore year round.
she rested the cake on plates you had
drying in the sink (I heard dessert sliding and
badly wanted a bite) when you grabbed her
and lanced her spine. Although she fell into the cake,
I still wanted some and contemplated it
too long because there was your face
hungry for the witness in me.
I insisted that I had not used the pool
as a restroom but you told me
you saw my soul for the egg it was,
sold on a depressed market, and that
I should take comfort in my broken life,
a rut ripe for a seed like you.
Tuesday, I woke with W’s in my hand,
head emptied of abracadabra.