by Amy Watkins
My friend believes her dreams to be prophetic.
I hardly credit mine: a pale pink monster,
slow and unrelenting—strange but not
enlightening—or my high school coach
commanding me to save a panda cub,
small, fragile as a quail egg—no second
sight. But what to make of dreams of loved
ones falling? Cliff’s edge dreams the night before
a death or diagnosis? Cye, alone
and wandering the night his first love left
him: nonsense, like the gills that opened in
another dream, six slits, elegant, thin,
caressing my throat like chandelier earrings.
I never learned to breathe under water.