Sleeping

Holding a grudge in a dream—

whether that takes talent, a special brand of stubbornness

passed down by my grandmother,

or is not even an anomaly of odds—

feels like another little death.

To wake up angry at remembering

the despair of a disparity

in caring. One long vivid, un-asked-for

thought that can’t be interrupted.

What evolutionary purpose is served

by replaying these events,

where in this playthrough, I

can’t pronounce my r’s,

and my left boob is four sizes smaller

than the right. And your face keeps

flickering like the wall across

from a fireplace—an attempt

at mimicking warmth.

Then, it is the qualifying that turns dreaming

problematic. To have a dream

of your teeth sliding out of your mouth,

plinking erratically as they hit the ground,

to wake up and attempt to make sense

of it with them intact, to resign to knowing

you’ll have to fall asleep again tonight

with no greater chance of extracting

meaning than teeth.