8.04.2009 At their house, in my bed, under my pillow she laid tiny Mexican people to sift through my dreams and when she slept I heard them screaming. When she opened her mouth I saw them crawling. They lived in the tall lamp outside of Grandmother's room, in the adobe houses with little white dogs and at night she pried them away to work in our ears, collecting our worries like bricks. In my left over dreams I saw them building cradles for their innumerable infants, weaving blankets to drape over their windows at night when they're away, and their children jumping from rooftop to rooftop like a train. When I started to fall asleep, when they screamed at night, I immediately turned over my pillow to let them breathe, laying perfectly still they gasped for air. I inched just below my pillow and watched the sunlight move through the blinds, every morning.
