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Not Really a Dream

Armando Jaramillo Garcia

Without her knowing he was stealing parts of her sleep
Upon waking he rushes to read the obituaries
Makes note of the cause and manner of death
She questions him everyday about his plans
And the details of his thoughts
His interactions with others
And the results
Without her knowing he is drawing out the fragrance
Of her speech
Isolating the monologue of her body
From the warp and weft of its place in time
He is being carried by a handful of sparrows
As if he were a tangle of twigs
Or a threadbare rag with the remnants of a woven motto
To a hidden nest in the crack of a wall
There he finds her among the tiny eggs
Smooth and squirming like a luminescent grub
No longer in need of vengeance or blood