Sick Dream # 409

There are black babies on my bed.

The bed actually belongs to me and my husband, but the babies, I'm can't be sure. I am new to the dream: it has been repeating itself since I began taking heavy antibiotics to counter my viral infection this week in waking life.

The babies are always present in my REM landscape now, but they are hardly ever unpleasant: they gurgle and laugh and roll about with us. They reduce my husband in the dream, a bald, burly black man with a ripe, lovely mouth, to fits of giggles and farts. When he tells me he wants more of them, I smile, but when he tries to touch me I tell him it's not time yet, only during the summer solstice, and only after you've washed the dishes, which he never does.

At three o' clock in the morning, when the sky outside is deep velvet, shooting stars crash into our backyard and scatter, becoming rocks and ash and brimstone (fertilizer for our galaxy trees), the babies like to divine the future for me.

My husband is asleep, so he does not hear them when they tell me: you will leave him for another very soon.