she paints her eyes with anchor blue
nighttime shades and the silver glitter
of exactly seven hundred and eighty-
three stars, retinas exploding inside
her mind as she stumbles into sleep.

(the dream man’s comin’, mama,
i heard him climbin’ up the stairs.)

her waves of consciousness remind
you of the last time you plucked
your eyebrows (the icy hot redness
enveloping your forehead), how she
slides into deep r.e.m stages with
trickles of fear, then safety, riding
along in the caravan of forgetfulness.

(he’s in my head, mama, he’s burying
his jewels inside my nightmares.)

she flips on the refrigerator light
of her brain and wakes up just as
suddenly as her body tells her that
everything is just a goddamn dream . . .