In my dream of enlightenment there is an aquarium full of Kennedys and drag queens. In this dream I can see the odor of an ear falling asleep. Blackbirds and bedsprings are mating. Can you hear the gills pulsing? Come see the freshly butchered cloudfish. It seems to be some sea cucumber’s idea of heaven. An entire universe of green swaying tubas erupts beneath the buoyant ceramic boat navigating the dreams fluid eyelet. Children are screaming, screaming, “Music must be seen and not heard.”
Like an argument between scissors, I slice away at a last chance to inflict reason. I’ve been separated too long.
Even in the dream my stomach votes capitalist, dragging my heavy baskets of need out of the territorial boat. I clutch a dripping fork and suddenly I want my own egg, floating up, a cold heart from the inside.
Other times I’ve been calling it sympathetic, calling it occasional, fluent in stone, submerged, silent but for the taking of time. The dream wakes. When you fall, it’s up, into the sky, where the water gathers for the crucial discussion about relocating.
I can’t hear the drag queens’ stolen speeches but soggy Kennedys drip from the aquarium lid. If the idea of heaven votes for the cucumber, I can’t see how I’ll be able to adjust.
Outside the air grows sharper. On the corner of the breakfast plate my own egg begins watching me float.