Morning Dreams

In the mornings, I reflect on my dreams while the dog tries to escape the back yard. 

“Roscoe, ROSCOE, come back this way. “

My nurse brother once mentioned a type of bruise you can’t see on the surface. Because I don’t touch my skin and feel you anymore but-

“ROSCOE!”
—I’ve had a lot of time to find my bruises. 

“Good boy RoRo, stay this way.”

In my dream we were cordial to one another and I felt so much forgiveness for you in that space.

“How was your trip to New York? I’m glad to see you doing well.”

I wake up and realize that Roscoe isn’t in this space.

“BAD BOY, get in the house. Every time I trust you, you run off, baby!”

My sister calls to tell me that I was in her dreams last night. 

I make Roscoe his breakfast. 

In her dream she could see where I was sitting but not the exact location. She drove from Florida to Memphis looking. 

She drove for hours in her dream to find me. 

Roscoe is already well asleep. Ready for his day. Moving his legs lightly. What are his dreams?

When I go back and over all the things that you’ve done to me, how do I create forgiveness in a space that you didn’t want to be in? 

How do I be kind when my whole body still rages about you?

Paloma

There is a bitterness

with every bite, as the juice trickles down your chin. 

And you grin 

within 

the duality

as tequila cools your mouth 

but warms your skin. 

Pain is fleeting, 

pain’s not sin

but pleasure is her vendable twin. 

There is a sweetness

in the squeeze, as it gets roughly stirred,

it spins. 

I spin. 

If my mind became clear

I’d tell you then

I’m really only used to gin.