Black Dream

I was born as a sinking mirror.
A black dream shows what I shouldn’t see:
fungal worlds, flooded cities,

gods of annihilation and lies, a door in my room
no one else can enter.
I’m not allowed to live in the light.

On an endless night, bricks sweat in my palm,
building a fortress to bury my birth. I look up;
the dripping moon splits in two: you emerge,

an alien weapon shored on the beach,
coughing up an oily serpent.
Now you keep showing up in my sink

as bits of chewed food, strands of hair,
a severed cord that I had forgotten.
Algae grows on glowing stalactites.

Petrified puppies pour from my closet.
Nametags on empty chairs scream our names
at a wedding submerged in late-afternoon light.