Sunday Morning

My dreamland is a cool, dark mangrove.

There are creatures in the water, but most of them are harmless. Some even share their secrets with me: how to keep walking, how to keep breathing. You see, in this place, there is very little air. 2% of it is oxygen, the other 98% another pungent substance that turns the sky dead cornflower blue.

I am a lover, then I am not. A.'s body is like that trunk, rough in some parts, but smooth from the waist down. When I press against it, I expect for him to emerge from the woods, but after some dream-minutes (hours, in real time), he does not appear. It's only wood, after all.

I am a sister, then I am not. L. sleeps, curled up under a gigantic root. But is it my brother? He is not moving. I touch what should have been his soft, round cheek, but feel only cold stone.

I am a daughter, then I am not. My mother and my father sit on the opposite bank, rippling the water with their toes. They are human, I am sure, because one of them waves, signalling for me to come over. In my haste, I trip over roots and sink my feet too deep in dream mud. I eventually reach them, but when I get there, I am disappointed to find out that they are not my parents. I cannot remember their faces - I only know that they are strangers, young, lithe moon children who'd crossed dimensions to tell me - take an ax, burn it out, leave your heart intact.