Saccharine Dreams

by Reese Orkin


The realization that you want to live is
always an embarrassing one and
seldom one you can make on an empty stomach.

I swore off dreams
at a young age
after an overindulgence incident
involving a wall of sugar cubes
that resulted in a very painful dentist visit.

Old habits die hard, however, so
I’ve started indulging in that
tempting dessert once more.

Sweets are usually not
associated with a refined palate,
the kind of gustatory wisdom you
mature into in your silver-fox days,
the kind that I have always idolized,
but I have begun weaving
a home out of cotton candy.

I know it’s gossamer;
easily dissoluble at the soonest
drop of rain,
rain which always comes again,
as I am constantly reminded.

Nevertheless, I write down a recipe
for a home with a floor in every room,
perhaps made of plush marshmallow
(Kosher, of course.)

A home where I do not have to say goodbye
to my cats;
I can weave them enrichment
perches out of sweet wafers.
A home where “I love you,”
is what it says on the tin and
is not a euphemism for
“I want something from you.”

A home where I can rest my
head on the forgiving flan
surface of my bed,
one that I will never be
roused from by
a shout of rage.

A home where family
does not mean blood,
but rather whom you share
your sugar with
of your own volition.


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