Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Brenda Paro

I Keep Having This Dream

where I find a dead body: Pale skin turned earthworms grass blade thin legs heaved into long weeds by a roadside Your single finger steering, my elbow out the window, as we pass. I ask you if you saw it, say, Back up, surprised at my calm; you pivot the wheel. The rest is surreal: hands over mouths, oh my god, we say, we fumble for something to say into cell phones, then to each other, as the sirens grow louder It's here where I wake, each time, to find you on the driver's side of the bed: never bother to wake you to say what I've seen. It's nothing you won't know soon enough without me telling you: Just us headed somewhere, together, then stopping, as anyone would.