My toes refuse to translate the nightmares between them. I dig deeper in sand, leaving cells penetrated by my own visions. My body is carried to distant people. Do they speak the language of my dreams? Can they see my visions if they are blind? Do they hear the crackle of the fires that burned me last night?
Water licks strangers from my heel. I stretch my fingers, dipping them into the surf. one. by. one. What are the chances I will touch the same dreams again? This time, will I see? I pinch my eyes tighter, blood fractals of light. I place one finger on my tongue, tasting salt and hope. I see a stranger, then she’s gone. I feel weight on my toes. Rhythm with the waves. I open to a yellow ball.
I slide my fingers over the curve and around the seam. Imperfection. I slide my fingers over my curves and around the seam. Imperfection. I see a woman, skin escaping petroleum-laced tenting. “Are you sure you want to wear that?” Yes, I’m sure. Do we hold more dreams and visions with more weight? Which cells carry hope? Which embrace despair? Can we choose the dreams we shed, or must we risk loss of faith when we transform flesh?
