You wake up
from a bad dream so convincing
your heart is still pounding
like you’re trying to outrun
an unknown attacker
and you cannot tell
when the danger
has passed

Your tongue hurts
as if you bit it in your sleep
Your stomach is filled with
doom
Your hands smell
like rotten eggs from the
latex gloves (the last of your supply)
you wore this afternoon
Your fingers are stiff
as if you were gripping tightly
onto something important
as you ran

In that moment
where you cannot reliably
separate fact from fiction

What you remember is crossing
enormous distances
swimming against tides
of people as in a subway station
where everyone else is going
the opposite direction
and you keep getting pushed back
by the current
until the crowds catch
their train
and you’re alone
emerging onto the sidewalk
facing the narrow entrance
to a bar run by an easygoing man in a navy jumpsuit
and a red knit hat covering his dreads
where you sneak past to use
the bathroom, although this time
while you’re in the worn wooden stall
you see a letter on the floor written
by a grandmother in 1910 in that handwriting
particular to grandmothers
and you see in the corner of the bathroom
through the space between the door and the stall
a cartoonishly large man with
a hot dog shaped nose
sleeping in a lounge chair

By now your heart rate has slowed
but your tongue still stings
and your hands still hurt
and you wonder
what really happened