All of our dreams end up on the floor.
In piles like clothes.

You know I can’t wash the stains out. I half tried.
All of our dreams are floods.
Children don’t even try
to put theirs away.
I sometimes fold mine. And shove yours over to the side.
And there they are again. And again and again.

There’s a fertility clinic in my office building.
It’s on the 15th floor.
When that button is pressed I stare at the couple’s shoes.
I know they fought over this.
They dragged
their soles.
Their dreams in their pockets.
All of our dreams end up in our pockets.
They don’t hold hands because hands are caressing dreams.
Churned and chapped at the inimitable dimples they imagine
will greet them with scrambled eggs.

And the child gets pickled.
Oozes out. Whole. Into a holy den of dreams.
The fluorescent lights hammering.
They say she is you. She is really you.
But I am on the floor too. Soiled. 

Nagmeh Phelan is a first-generation Canadian who resides in Toronto with her family. Her work has appeared in Room and Queen Mob’s Teahouse. Find her @somesomersaults.