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A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.

Let me remember there’s a door inside each flower.

A dead body leaned sideways against a wall. Its eyes were open.

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

Rebecca Lehmann

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don’t have to be cages.

What will we do without exile, and a long night that stares at the water?

I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

The angel lay in his body effervescent as a flake of alabaster.

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.

I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.

The waves of laughters breach an inlet of cumulus and I’m excited.

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

The world seemed newly made and filled with a frightening silence.

The portal light, on your face, now, a rose light on a sinking freighter.

Life is a dream, he thought. Something she knew and I didn’t.

If you hear your name again just say, Here I am. Maybe it’s the Lord.

Men came over carrying lanterns and pulled away the chunks of ice.

Wang Wei