When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. I was born with all the eggs I will ever have. I don’t talk much, but when I dream I yell my head off. I remember the details: when I’m flying I’m late for the flight and the airport doesn’t exist. Each of my flight bones exists, but I can’t see them all at once. The ground is like the bottom of a pool. My legs push and I fly.
When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. My ovaries are two floating thumbs. I’m empty of womb and glad. I have a sense of myself: round hole to a square peg. Sounds I make wake me: Oh! Fucker! Help me! Stop!
When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. I lift my skirt and I’m wild. Untethered. My feet in the cold stream with the salamanders. I remember a spiny body. I remember flying a drone to see myself at the bottom of a lake.
When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. I remember I said oh good this dream’s going to be a revenge movie where not a lot of innocents die. I remember being pregnant in a hospital birthing room where all the other mothers were getting plastic surgery afterwards. I will remember hearing screaming bunnies. Leashed to the house. They’re not unhappy, but their sounds make you think they are.
When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. I will die with nothing but a shape beneath my eyelids. A square with something on it. A tray. A record player. A blocked tunnel.
When I begin dreaming, I will remember that I’m dreaming. Some mothers walk the other way as their sons in business suits walk straight into the ocean. I pull my baby out of the brine amazed she can still breathe.
When I am awake, I will ask myself: Am I dreaming? Am I dreaming? I will ask myself, when I am awake. Awake am I, when dreaming I am.
