in my dream, i eat dinner with your family. except, they don’t look like your family until you sit down across the table. then, they all grow faces: your mom, your dad, and your three brothers. their wives are also at the table and, when you say mrs. kennedy, we all turn to look at you. now you look at me like i just grew a face, too, then at my hands; i have a diamond ring on every finger of each hand. you grab me by the elbow and drag me away from the table. you pull out a flipbook of all the girls you’ve slept with, all tall brunettes like me. then there’s actually me, on my back and on my knees and on top of you. look, you finally admit, *i only wanted to **** you*. i wake up.
in my next dream, we eat lunch at a table outside with your children. there are four of them: a tall japanese boy, a little black girl, and a set of freckled, white fraternal twins. they are all named john, like your father, even the girls. the boy twin is on a leash but, when he tries to run into oncoming traffic, you let him. they’re not really your kids, anyway. they’re the babies your ex’s carried to term to try to make you stay. it didn’t work, you say, like it’s something to be proud of. i don’t want to have your kids, anyway, i am reminding you, when the boy comes limping back screaming mommy. i wake up.
in my last dream, you eat breakfast in bed with your new girl. she smiles with her entire mouth. her face is stuck like that, top teeth cemented to bottom teeth. she laughs at your jokes through the enamel. wanna go for round two? you ask and she answers you like yeth. she gets on her knees and you push her head down to **** you off, your **** banging against those teeth. open up, babe, you say, open up. she can’t. i sleep through the night.