at a family dinner in a dream:
(mother) Would you like to go to a play with me tonight?
(daughter) no, i don’t.
(mother) I’m sure you’ll enjoy it!
(daughter) no, i won’t
(father) who is the playwright?
(mother) Lacan.
(daughter) maybe it could be interesting.

what to do when psychoanlaysis sprouts up in your dreams before they turn lucid…

a baby falls asleep in the hands of my almost-sister-in-law
we escape down the backstairs
pages of poetry books flap in the night wind
a feather-haired woman escapes the scene

lately these dreams have been tiring, recursive, practically Derridean–
searching for something i know i can’t find until the damned chimes ring
and the mid-afternoon light streaks across our bed

goddess of light
her name is my name, too