Emily Borgmann When the Dreams Know More than You Do

I woke up dreaming of Play-Doh green hands

too soft to slap the pavement

I wanted to drum in noonday sun,

woke like nightmare crashed me, and it was,

but I don’t recall fear that tasted so close to confusion,

like taller-than-me girl with braided hair

had stomped on my new jewelry-making kit,

and I was relieved before I was mad at her,

like my mother screaming at my father

when he wasn’t home, surely she had reason to curse him,

but timing, like with betta fish, is always a factor,

my hands are solid as they’ve ever been,

but I need to let go, as they say, of the tooth I never lost,

the beaded bracelets I stopped making after the stomping,

the woman I didn’t make myself into,

and these crumbling fingers are exactly right.

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