The Men Who Took Their Dreams

Sometimes,

I wander riverbeds

In my dreams

And think

About the songs

My grandmothers

Sang, when the winds

Beat the cottage roof

Down

Broken skin

And torn hangnails

Decorate the hands

Of my kin

I watch women

Bare breasts

To the open sea

And scream

‘What about me?!’

Except, it’s all

In my dreams

And when I wake

The grandmothers

Are no more

And there are

Still wars

Carried out over kitchen

Tables, hurried into

The cracks of doors

Or under a hemline

So the neighbors can’t

See the bruising

Where are the grandmothers

Who fought for our voice

I’d rather tread riverbeds

Than exist in this vacuum

Of choice

I am, always in the water,

In my dreams,

Maybe it’s because

You can’t hear screams

In the swirling of currents

Like the men who took their

Dreams

And stuffed them in

Sweet pies

For what is Sunday

Without dessert

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