Six Dreams
Beth Brezenoff

It is prawn-sized, curled up in salt water. Through my glass-bottomed stomach, I watch it sleep. It is a boy, it asks for my breast.

*

I bled it. A little animal.

A kept bird in a held hand.

*

A night out. We're in New York, we're in Minneapolis. I'm smoking pot and drinking wine and having the best time. All of our friends are here.

He is too little to be alone. He is in a yellow room, crying.

*

Train doors slide closed, his small eyes widen.

*

I ride in the back seat of a car. The dusty tattooed body driving is my dusty tattooed body. A tattoo like small broken wings. Tiny bones I was built on. Let's pack a suitcase full of warm pajamas, sweaters, socks. Wooden spoons. A vacation.

The car swerves. We are pushed past a wanted wave. And what can I do from the back seat, while the car spins beautifully and I hold my mouth open, carefully, for any available air. If she built me with her body, what happens if she dies.

*

In the basement, we've forgotten whole hallways of rooms.

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