nighttime and the dreams begin spilling, babies dreaming.

I’m loosening my teeth again … I stopped the pills and am wiggling the roots straight out of my head. 
I need them to kiss, but most boys don’t have the juice, the peach-colored shells at the tips of their fingers. 

I don’t even like to kiss anymore. 

I just miss the voices in the dark, telling, spelling my dream kingdom. 
I can’t move from the bed, but I sense the unclean bed skirt brush against the grime below. 
I need one little walk through the yard, just to find where I’m going to lay this thing to rest. I didn’t want it to grow, only to write a word on pleasure: “olive.” 

now my stomach turns at the thought of pith, a usual favorite … I’m not okay!
they say glowing and plump–I’m the sickliest milk-blue!
if not sleeping, then sweating. My head pounds harshly. 

I chew peppercorns to stay in my body, the real one, not the one that is burying the box in the drawer, 
anointing dead things with oil and sealing them in jars. 

there are times to form the world and times to bleed into the soil. 

I pray to Bird God Baba and ask him to swoop down and swaddle me in his mouth … I’m so sorry, and never so confused ab0ut a failure. 

nighttime and the dreams begin spilling, babies dreaming. 

my choices were the best I knew how to make.