There’s a dream where we break all the dishes in my kitchen and then
eat the pieces.
I know it’s a dream because we are still alive after we swallow.
It sounds more like a nightmare,
and it would be, except that
we are together,
so even the fractured ceramic is
tender as we chew it.
There’s a dream where we want our own world,
so we cut it out of blue and green paper
like a science project,
except your silhouette is every piece of land
and my spine is every mountain range laying across you.
Here are the broken plates
mending inside of us, healing soft
and pliant, bending like the necks of swans,
forgetting that they are glass.
Maybe we can forget, too.
I can kiss you where it’s sharp
until you can’t remember how the pain
made you someone to be afraid of.
There’s a dream where nothing bleeds, but everything is alive,
where broken things can be made
unbroken just by wishing it.
Let me tell you about the earth
and what it looked like before we
got our hands on it.
Let me tell you about the earth and
how it broke apart like a plate on
the tile floor.
We all know what it is to be unmade.
In a dream, we tried to forget.