The Name of the Dream

by Thea Sullivan


I have been dreaming again.
I have been dreaming, and when I wake
the sky hangs white and wet with fog.
Black umbrellas float by,
pavement hisses with rain.
All of my dreams have the same name
and the name is unpronouncable.


All of my dreams have the same name
and the name is broken glass.
I get up from the operating table,
drift down the hall to my parents'
dim, vacant kitchen.
The sink gleaming. I spit out
severed pieces of my tongue
across the clean metal surface.


The name of this dream is water.
I leave my father's huge empty tanker,
go under with the gypsy.
The scorpion she holds between her teeth
propels her through the deep.
I close my lips around its tail
but can't keep it in my mouth.
I rise out of the water
bearing a stem, a crimson bloom.