3/30

In the dream you were a coal-dust kitten, tiny beetles for eyes,
sitting on the corner, crying, each mew another spider falling
out of your mouth and onto the floor. You clung so quickly
with those tiny new claws. When I brought you water, you
asked me for whiskey. When I poured it,
it turned into blood in the bowl.

I made you a bed and fed you love songs for dinner until
one morning you woke up, rubbed your eyes, and called me
(accidentally) "mother." I drove you out to the country. Left you
at the first farmhouse I found, only glanced in the rearview
once.