In My Dream You are Not Cold

I’m not shrouded in a blanket of smog as the first
of the winter’s heavy pollution hits the city
schools don’t shut and there are no warnings for
pregnant women (in my dream, there aren’t refineries
and power plants to start with). Your mother doesn’t
burn your clothes, dispose of the needles, doesn’t tell me
where she’ll bury you and what flowers arrangements
are appropriate for the funeral.

In my dream, there are no rules:
candles for the living up, for the deceased down
wear black for 40 days (preferably for a year)
don’t dance, don’t celebrate and don’t you dare
laugh, you’re supposed to mourn. Spirits are not
comfortable seeing their own reflection, she’ll say
covering the mirrors. We should allow you to depart
freely and make offerings on the day of the dead
to facilitate your transition to another life.

I am in charge in my dream so when I say
you can’t leave the house, I mean it.
There are no priests and religions, and
you are forever trapped in our mirrors
getting undressed, shaving, hopping in the shower.
I don’t awaken the following day.
The needle is in your vein when your snoring
startles me awake in the dead of night so
I pull it out, take the tourniquet off and apply pressure
with my fingers to stop bleeding. You sleep through
until noon and when I pinch you, you tell me to stop.
I don’t know what the wake is in my dream and
I don’t say, I’m not making any promises with
a smirk when you ask me not to let go of you.
You lie warm and cuddly by my side
your leg on mine, my arm on yours, and I feel
your pulse against my naked heart when we fuck
making offerings to the gods of love
till death do us both part.



Bojana Stojcic teaches and writes. Her poetry and prose have appeared in 30+ online and print lit journals and anthologies. She is @BoyaETC on Twitter and is currently working on a collection of short fiction/prose poetry.