During the dry season I lived
in a house with two dreams.

In one dream, my father died at dawn.
This was revealed to me by a sign:
the ceiling suddenly cracked
ice and snow gushed into the room.

The other dream snared my afternoon naps.
A dark spot appeared on the waxed floor:
I didn’t clean it at once, it became a big hole
and turned into my mother’s tomb.

One day my dreams came true:
the ceiling opened to the sky
the floor sank into the earth.
It started to rain.

Now a pillar of living water
supports the house.
It whispers: sleep deep
we’re home
we’re home.

— First published in The Penwood Review

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