What horse ran through your dreams? my mother asks.
I’m drinking my juice. I gulp and choke.
The tiny jellyfish pulp swirl, a cyclone in the glass.
Did it speak to you before it galloped away?
How did she know? She flips the eggs
without breaking the yolks. The sun intact.
When you flew, did you look down at the waves?
I hold my toast, halfway to my mouth.
I struggle to hold onto my dream,
gripping the edges, concentrating,
trying to see the shimmering center.
The boar’s tusk, the cloud of golden butterflies –
Could you see the whole island?
Did you find the pool above the waterfall?
My toast snaps and all is exploding crumbs.
Don’t worry, she whispers,
generously wielding the butter knife,
Night always returns.
Charlie Steak is an author and playwright currently living in the Southwest USA, where he hikes a lot. The winters are great but gardening in summer resembles Armageddon (or maybe Mordor). He has written for Space 55, Synthetic Human, Rising Youth Theatre, and other organizations. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Constellations, Bluebird Word, Dogwood Alchemy, Hare's Paw, Pinyon Poetry, Tangled Locks, and Orion's Beau.