Dreams

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.