Last night I dreamt

we were hosting a dinner –

both of our hands caked with

uncooked food and

thinning time –

I baked bread

as the kitchen clock jabbered

like an inlaw,

and when I reached for the cinammon,

the bottle slipped from my hands

and fragmentized on the floor.


And when I looked up to you

you were unfamiliar;

like I thought I followed the recipe right

but your skin was singed –

your perfume curdled,

soured the inside of my nose.


Today when I reached across the sink

to brush my teeth,

my elbow hit the porcelain bowl

that held your makeup,

and it fell to the floor, fragmentized –

your blush like dried blood

against the ceramic tile.