--Priscilla Ahn, Dream
It is a ramshackle house. An abandoned house.
This disappointed house.
My old bedroom window is blinded by vines. A creeping sort of killer. You don’t notice the slow strangulation until it’s already scaled the neck. And begun to squeeze.
Were my curtains yellow or pink? I don’t know. It’s been sixty years.
But I do remember the steam of my breath upon the icy windowpane. The secrets I penned within that fog. Rubbing out the pretty words before anyone could see.
Do houses have dreams?
I think so.
Does this one?