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Benjamin A. Morris
to package a dream.
My father sent me a parcel,
small and colorless, for my birthday.
Open it with care, he wrote.
And keep it out of the light.
I did not read the rest of his letter.
I flickered with happiness and
stole upstairs.
Night. The moon hung low and pensive,
dripping light into the room like
scandalous raindrops on a loveless dusk.
I set the package on my comforter,
looked for a latch. Or an opening
to put my finger in and pry a lid off.
When I found none I became
impatient and shook the box,
and was violent, and cursed my father.
I threw it down, where it snagged
a harp-nail, and its outer skin
peeled away in a sudden swish
of silver and silence.
I reached in. The bruised dream cowered
from the sudden invasion of light and flesh,
and with its one sharp, hungry tooth split me.
I recoiled and gazed aghast at the fluid
seeping out over my trembling hand,
a silken glove over my cold fingers.
The blood trafficked no color,
nor did it clot.
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