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Crossing Over

Crossing Over

 

I dreamt I saw you going 

up the escalator holding 

a small white dog in your arms.

Your voice grabbed me 

 

from behind, “Is it safe 

to move about the cabin?”

A chain of tinkling fears kisses 

a confusion as vast as space.

 

Your mustache tasting like warm

me captured between light and 

shadows picking watermelons

in the spurious moonlight.

 

Twisted and diseased plants sip 

pints in a dimension beyond, 

where your father stares 

at stains on the drop ceiling

 

and old women take long showers 

in your unclean bathroom.

Winter whispers summer in salty 

slums. Laundered rags hung 

 

above the floor-bound mattress

like faded flypaper prayer flags 

waiting for an ill wind to blow. A black cat 

creeps out of the pissed in closet.

 

We stumble down to the rails

to look for running bulls.

We smother our nightmare

with a discarded couch cushion.

 

Crimes litter the floor

like squashed popcorn kernels.

Life less murmurs in the glow 

of tasteless TV talk shows.

 

 

 

 

 

Christy Cornett