I wish orgasm carried onto my eyelids. I wish I dreamed
of rolling salt waves, pink sea, inky sky with ballpoint twinkles.
Instead, left knee hooked over the side of our low mattress,
I dream that I mistake watermelons for tomatoes and take
the linguine off the heat too early. I crunch it at my desk. My teeth
can’t take it, they’re soggy cotton candy. They’re sugar, sticky,
crumbly. I stagger under three armfuls (I have three arms?)
of watermelon seeds and office supplies packed in Tupperware.
I want to dream in waves and stars for you, in the crisp
crunch of a walnut in a square of fudge — strong incisors —
after a night when you give me more than you’ve got. I want to
share them over pancakes, watch the pride soak into you
like butter. But my mind isn’t as beautiful as you.
Hannah Silvers, a just-west-of-Atlanta native, has only three true loves in life: popcorn, her dictionaries, and her little brother.