I replace the pan of water on the radiator in my sleep. I know this because I wake standing by the fogged window upon which I’ve transparently written: REFILL RADIATOR PAN. CHECK.
There are parts of my body I have never seen. I have told you about this before. I have dreamed of seeing them & in my dreams they appear as increments of wind—dodos—newborn universes—rotary phones.
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life. The night I walked in my sleep to the all-night diner & could have died of exposure or been hit by a car had you not woken me. The night I tried to find my childhood home.
One night I dreamed that a girl was born with the umbilical cord of her twin sister around her neck. Imagine the sonogram. A girl, her conjoined sister trailing behind. I name the first Manifest Destiny & the second Acceptable Loss. I pronounce them inseparable & in this respect I am an expert. According to medical records, I was born in my sleep.
