Dream:
Bells are ringing in the street, signalling the shift change. The bars begin to dim their
lights and the diners empty; the flood of people slows to a gentle, consistent crawl.
The all-night laundromats and the twenty-four-hour grocery stores turn up their lights,
their windows brimming with a cold, silent yellow.
Chinatown begins to stir and the late night lights up, silhouettes wavering against walls.
I keep opening my mouth, trying to speak this language I can’t speak, and my tongue
is like cotton candy, sticking on itself. I hiccup and choke and die on my words, surrounded
by people with their palms stretched out.
Dream: this is a dream but it is not a dream. Pockets of the city come awake late at night;
the neon lights fade into a hushed whisper; hands caress my cheeks and my shoulders.
I crouch on my knees, turning in circles, with fingers in my hair.
The lights change around me, turning yellow and blue. I know this is a dream but I suck
in my breath and I choke, and I gag; I cry out in a faint mew.
I wake up with my back arched and my hands twisted in the sheets, still seeing the things
in my head. My skin is beaded with sweat as the cold creeps through the window but it
breathes its cold breath down my body. I turn over and pull myself up on one elbow, clawing
at the window.
The smell of the lake drifts in and I inhale desperately, the sharp clear smell begins to clear
my head. The bells are still ringing in the street; the silhouettes still shiver on the late-night walls.