the dream of the living

Every day, every moment, without knowing it,

You dream the dream of the living.

You yearn to piece yourself together,

To turn halves and quarters and eighths into wholes,

To fit the myriad parts of yourself one to

Another, like some puzzle of traits and attributes

That when complete will spell the perfect version

Of a you, glimmering, shiny and wet like a fish.

You will be what you always wanted,

How you always envisioned yourself,

Golden and pirouetting like a miniature

Ballet dancer atop a chiming music box.

You know that you are now but a fraction of

What you could be, that you are just

Unmolded clay, a lopsided face, a chuckle

Instead of a laugh, a head of unbrushed hair.

To dream the dream of the living is a cozy, easy thing,

As natural and latent as breathing, or moving.

To dream the dream is to keep your head down.

But what should happen if you were to raise your head,

To look your own quivering reflection in the eye,

To acknowledge that maybe the hair looks better a mess.



I always wished that
I had compact hips
Instead of my
Sprawling, basket-like own.

The triangle that forms between
My belly’s button and the two
Rounded handles of each Hip bone
is lazy, relaxed, like reclining

On a bed with golden sheets of
Egyptian cotton in my boyfriend’s
Basement of a room. Now those other hips,
That structure so unlike mine,

They seem so, ah, easy.
Easier to contain, to hold.
But I suppose that they aren’t
Like mine for a reason.

Although that reason is
lost to me.