Dream Life
Anna Mindel Crawford
In the front room we lie
in oily hollows on floral
sofas, crack peanut shells
with our teeth and spit
into jars. The dog licks
salt raw from our fingers,
whines like a drone for more.
As daylight creeps through
curtain seams weeping
with nicotine, porn plays
like soaps on the large
TV, soundtracks blasting
bird-song into empty
corners where shadows
meet, too dark to be seen.
We take comfort in neon
jelly beans, imagine being
loved. At dusk the cat
hisses at her reflection
laughing in our eyes, twists
her neck towards the door,
like she knows the past
scuttled into the hallway,
straight into the trap we set.
The music of depression
beats like hi-hats. We stay
still just for the thrill of it.
