Part-time Dreamer

After we fight, I dream I’m milking a cow and the udder tastes like mint chocolate. Dream-You says the milk tastes regular, sour even. I say it’s a miracle.

Over pancake breakfast, I tell you that Mary Shelley, only nineteen, dreamed of Frankenstein. You say she died of a brain tumor at fifty-three.

Last night, I joined a circus. And my grandfather—the one who drank—was clown and lion tamer. In the tent, it snowed warm snow. And you were kneeling, drawing computer codes in the powder. From the tightrope, I read your language but couldn’t understand your meaning.

Photo credit: Jessica Caisse