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REM

by: Amelia Foster

When you wake up sour cow heavy
and needing something creamy,
your cold limbs limp and stinging,
you tangle dreams with sleep and sheets
and you’re ankle tethered seething.
You curl half circle round
a bear named Bear and dream of
goatsbeard, chickpeas, curry paste on
shower tiles.
You wake and dream your tepid dreams.
You pulse and pulse against the sheets.
Tremble neck. Tremble chest.
Measure. Draw breath. Measure.
All the while a moon face crepe-shaped
rests against your windowpane.
Empty ghosts, sitting ghosts press the bed
beside you, salt your pillow, touch your chest.
They wish you warm inside your bedclothes,
wrap around you like your mother did
when you woke up wet-nosed.
They count your breaths while you are dreaming
real dreams, fever dreams.