I am Reading
your dream journal. In it, a tree arches down to the sidewalk, spreads its branches, becomes a large Brown Recluse. You continue sinking slowly into the river; you continue trying to light your stove with a slipper. Your mother appears on the back of the spider, wearing a soiled housecoat and one slipper. She sings some Billie Holiday song. You let go of your stove, watch it float downstream. A drowned lamb floats to you, catches on the cuff of your coat sleeve. You worry that the water will stain your silk. You poke the lamb with a fork, in case it wants to wake up.
I don’t want to wake up – if I hold completely still, the spider can’t see me. It lumbers towards us, your mother fixing macaroni and cheese on its back, complaining again that the sink’s all backed up. I feel the clotted silverware brushing my hooves, my body getting heavy, sinking like a stupid lead crown.