The Familiar

I’ve memorized the dark of my room now,
the path between the door and the bed posts
that lash out and mark my pale shins,
memorized the width of the rivulet I make
between our two sleep bodies by rolling
just slightly away.
He told me his kink was “morning sex.”
Indeed, I feel extra naughty
at approximately 6:36 a.m.,
get off on licking the sleep
from your eyes. I reach my peak
when over pancakes I get a glimpse of the deflated
anniversary balloon in the diner shellacked
to the curtains and hanging sad.
In my dream last night I lived with my parents
and we were skipping town. Their faces a
mishmash blur, they told me I’d have my own
room; a window seat, a walk-in closet.
We arrived in the evening. My dream self
paced through the room, which became a set of
stairs, which became a zigzagging blue
slide into a dirt hole. No the slide is
a yellow water slide in Texas and cherry blood
spills from my toe. No my toe is my future
child’s toe that I bandage. No my child
is a portable first-aid kit no my child
is a pixelated projection on a weird white wall
no I will not just spend my life as
the tender of this tin of bandaids!
You shouldn’t end anything
with your character waking from a dream.
But I can’t get out of this room
without at least one eye cracked.