Issue Thirty-One - Winter 2018


By Jessica Dubey

In my daughter’s dream
I reach for the salt shaker.
Parts of me dissolve.
I dab the corners
of my mouth.
The napkins falls
from a hand no longer there.
I am dust circling a dream,
sifting through my own remains
for someone else’s symbolism—
wishbone, heart charm,
luggage tags.
My daughter speed-reads
every omen, tattoos them
between her fingers
in white ink
only I can read.
I pour her morning mantra,
add extra milk.
She sees clouds,
stirs them up.
Let them be, I tell her.
I cannot fly
through so much turbulence.

Copyright 2018 Dubey