The Succulent Flowers

In the forty-third dream, Sergeant at last was

allowed to trade wings of the house with his

brother, but Galbraith had left the windows

open through the recent storms. Frigatebirds

were roosting in a wardrobe now overgrown

with lichens. As Sergeant grabbed their necks,

their hollow bones snapped, and the splinters

pierced his naked fingers. He wiped them on

an Easter dress that belonged to their sister,

Martha, who had gone missing only this year.

When Sergeant woke, it was half past seven.

Galbraith and Martha would have moved on

to the greenhouse to supervise the watering.

Sergeant would skip breakfast and go straight

to the study. He would say that he had been

awake since dawn and had lost track of time,

speculating on the future of glass architecture.

In theory, whole cities could be made of glass.

Glass walls, glass doors—even roofs of glass.

Citizens of glass cities would grow very close.

Sergeant dried his face beside the washbowl,

his burgundy nightshirt saturated with sweat.

Their father had always said, Dreams can kill.

Sergeant had heard him on the evening of his

death, from behind his locked chamber door,

speaking the name of their aunt—Ermalinda.

Martha said that dreams were pleasure cruises.

One met only nice people, and he conversed

or played games on deck—though sometimes

the ship sank, and he did not live to learn why.