Lately all I can remember of dreams is that I’ve forgotten them
the way a few people will gasp with grief when I die until
too many years pass & my laugh & smell are lost
dreams would I even know if disaster struck
in the building where I live would I hear a faint howl
the tide is an ending I can’t stand once on the beach I squatted
beside a castle rich with plastic animals the lion washed away with a wave
& there was nothing to do but heave myself weightless into the empty
ocean like the doves that erupted from a truck bed last week except
one flattened & I knew they were papers dancing & spinning with speeding
cars how had they gotten free these stories or records or blank pages maybe
something precious was lost to rot & pulp but for a brief moment they’d broken
loose & flew I still don’t know if lions can swim but I picked grains
of sand from my toes for days afterward I have carried these small
mournings sweet ghosts carried them with me for years like sand
in the sea so full & taking up not even a speck of space in the cavern
I carry what will I have left in the end but the idea of a lion slinking
through depths its yellow mane a speck roaring in the blue
hollow which someone might mistake for a sun
Natalie Martell is a Minneapolis-based queer writer. Since earning her MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato, she has received creative support grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board. Her work has appeared in The Journal, Salt Hill, SWWIM, Flyway, and elsewhere.