Dream Catalogue

I release the cat into the sea.

One night, I am dead—

the next I am kissing that girl

from my middle school.

The dog runs away.

The dog is hit by a car.

The dog attacks.

A black hole makes a slow, fat B-flat

like a tuba playing something funereal

along the cusp of the imploded star.

Once, my family left me

at a rest stop on the side of 70.

Once, their faces turned blue

and I had to reach into their mouths

to dig out scarab beetles

lodged in their throats.

Once, it was Christmas

and my grandfather told everyone

he’d been to Dachau.

A deep well means prison.

A mirror means a second wife.

They say we can cure your migraines

based on that expanse of sky

you think you saw,

that we should vote according

to whether your boyfriend leaves you.

They say Lincoln knew he’d be shot, but—

what can we chalk up to presentiment

and what to generalized anxiety?

Would your answer change if I told you

about Lincoln and panic attacks?

About Lincoln’s phobias?

When Lincoln woke up,

we imagine it was with a feeling

of indiscriminate dread.

When we wake up,

we change our clothes and go to school.