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. You emerge
from the dripping moon,

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

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

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