in yesterday’s dream i was trying and failing to speak to my mother.
the floor was hard under my knees and i gagged and tried, tried so hard to say something, anything, my eyes pleading for her to wait and listen, but instead of words, little rocks, almost bubbles of rocks, came dribbling out of my mouth and scattering over the ground like lost teeth.
the red door. red. (red like the door of the old house.) the red door fell in flat, loose on its hinges, and my mother stepped in with a look of innocent surprise. i was collapsed on the floor, in the house riddled with holes–bullets and termites–and dust swirling in the white sunlight, and my mother came in, and i tried to speak her. so. i tried to speak–but my mouth was full of gravel and i could not.
in the dream i was a deaf boy. deaf and immune to the sound of gunfire, so, i was also the lookout while my friend in black jacket black jeans black boots shot up the inhabitants of a house. house made fragile with holes. the screen door was hanging loose off its hinges.
in the dream i was a deaf boy and i was running, exhausted and terrified. the road empty and winding, like the dirt path we used to drive on. the spruce trees had sprouted and i was hiding among them, the needles stabbing me, my face, my skin under the filtered green light. i thought that the people driving by wouldn’t see me–i was supposed to be invisible. but it didn’t work out that way and i was as plain standing beneath the trees as i was standing in an unused field. i was just pretending. deaf and stupid, trying to believe i was invisible.