EL GRITO

i awake
entangled in a mess of hair and corded headphones and someone else’s blankets,
dreaming of my mother screaming spitting from the kitchen
cold knife of fear slicing open my guts as i lay in bed and clasp the hands of a friend there
with me, blink and swallow,
it’s only a matter of time.

i don’t often dream
of you this way,
nor do i dream of you really at all.

you told me once you used to have
recurring dreams of your own mother,
chasing you with a knife through a garage loaded with boxes,
and you tried to run, but you had a broken foot.

in my recurring dream you are
a gutteral scream from a neighboring room,
a roar in the hallway, a rumble of doors and broken footsteps approaching,
my gaze locked, one fixed point, a deep breath
then

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