by Andres Cerpa
At breakfast I feed him my dreams as I arrange
his pills on the table. He is best in the morning,
when his wings lift from the labyrinth,
when he shaves, has an espresso.
Father, I dreamt last night that I was riding
a bicycle down a road in the country,
stones in my pockets to toss at the stray dogs.
I was afraid. The road continued into a fallen
green as the negligent moon took over the sky.
I could hear the dogs off in the distance
as I pedaled towards a clearing where one deer
stood; its proud antlers swayed in the silver
& I was silent. Silent as I've ever been. Calm.
Then you. You sprinted from the tree line:
openmouthed, unshaven, & took
the deer by its hind legs to drink your fill.
I wanted to run. I did. but ran toward you.
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