on a pillow.

our dreams are
controlled by a
narcoleptic freud who
sifts through our
secrets with dirty palms,
pushes through the
fibrous strings of thought
and presses his thumbs
down on our dusty
subconscious.

he does his work like a
sick ghost, dizzily
roaming in and out
of the minds of
hollow strangers.

a mother buries her
woven hands under the
dirt in a sort of prayer,
asking not to be next,
for her bones not to show.