I no longer recount my dreams to the spouse because one morning he said,
“What is the matter with your head, woman?”
To which I had no response.
Last night I was urinating in a restaurant, hovering off the side of my chair, hoping no one would notice.
I was giving a dying rat sips of water by squeezing a damp paper towel over his freakish gray face.
I was wandering, lost, lugging my severed leg.
But one perfect night I was in Italy, at a little restaurant on the side of a cliff. I was watching the light change, and laughing, laughing, laughing.
I keep hoping for another night like that.