Champagne Floor, Dreams Oh Mine
Girija Tropp

Quickly. I meditate for three and leave the store. When did people start to drive as if playing pinball?
Days have passed since I watered the plants but the garden forgives. He uses code words from a workshop. Anger management. Releasing the spirit.
Back in my dream, I name things: Black; White; Road; Sand. I accept who I am; standing at my father's grave; always, there is a storm, threatening. A pattern. I am sure there is. Unexpectedness can be a motif. I'm running because one does.
The sex is fantastic, skin on skin, jealousy. We don't kiss. Words I have trouble spelling -- rhythm and dessert. I travel through sand in a large bus, the only passenger. The driver comes in from time to time for intimacy. His children leave flour over the sink and we eat nectarines. What I would have preferred -- a clean kitchen.
A spoof Paypal message surfaces in my inbox. I put body parts in a freezer and wake up; one can kill in cold blood.
The plums from the neighbors' garden have fallen, unripe, onto the driveway and it is too late; they are squashed and fermenting. I am afraid that the world is a terrible place, but there's no evidence, only the news. In the mini-tornado, trees fall without crushing the house. A miracle, until we hear the ambulance. My days could go on forever if I stopped, waited.
In the book, people make decisions. I leave. I left. I am always leaving a mess.