The night is soft and pliant in my palms like Silly Putty,
traced with finger and newspaper-print.
It has imprinted
the sound of bells clanging in the forest
and nails dirty with parting rich brown soil, specked with gold
and preserved in brown scallops.
Es entonces que the promised land is too blurry to claim.
It is all misunderstanding, all dream.
But when the morning weaves the sunlight into my hair
and the persianas begin to play shadow-puppet theater on my face,
the four heavy quilts over my body
grow light with clarity.
My eyes open. I sit, flick my wrists like bang-snaps,
across the kitchen, mapping pirouettes over the black tile like a spinning-top.
--Encabulla, vuelve y tira---
Walking in cursive.
The thing about having a psychoanalyst is that it can be terribly fun.
This week's assignment is to write a dream log,
so I jot everything down:
bells clanging in the forest
and nails dirty with parting rich brown soil…
I drink my coffee from a porcelain mug.
Café con leche lingers on the tip of my tongue
even after I have emptied it.
The brown sugar oozing at the bottom tells me that I have completed my task.
And when night falls,
and the lull of sleep washes over me, I rest easy.
I know that my pen will never cease to move
the following morning.