If you ever dream of me, do not dream the one with the tempted mutt
or the one with the seizures, or any of the others
in which I withhold from you, caressingly, dressed
in my dressing-gown and looking uncharacteristically aloof.
Or if you do—if you dream the dream of putting poison in your ear,
or the dream of the ladder accident—
raise your head high, against me. You and what army
will rain down on my own sleep a field of anxiety bullets.
You and what army will sic on me the yellow bird,
and the fog of disruption, and ruptured ankles and joints.
I’ll know then that in my last night, I killed you,
and in your last night you rose again,
and we met afterward around the table to eat the pudding-
from-a-mix that Nobody made to comfort us.
© Arielle Greenberg