handfuls of air

upright, pupils flaring

in the dark, she recognizes

this dim room. Blue ghost-light seeps

through sheer curtains like

through ocean water. Something

is off. An extra gravity

presses on her like anesthesia.

She sits hunched on the edge of the bed,

on the edge of a dying memory.

I am awake. Of course I am.

Hands. What about them?

She looks at her palms and counts

each skinny finger. Left hand:

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Oh.

Right hand: a second bulbous thumb

emerges next to the crooked pinky.

Alien appendages protrude from fleshy webs

between fingers on top of fingers.

Rotting carrot-fingers curl

into fists and bend like dying spiders.

She gasps. I am dreaming! She crashes

into herself. The room

crystallizes into focus. The air

feels smooth and tactile like liquid.

She stands, but the lights are fading.

- have to hold on, can't waste this, gotta think -

She runs to the center of the room

dissolving around the edges, spins

with arms swinging out, concentrates as “air”

rustles “hairs” on “arms” and runs between

“fingers”, and “blood” flows to the tips.

Not real blood, not real hands.

She can't lose this control, can't become

a slave to the unconscious, not again.

She must freeze this melting dream.

She drops to the floor and slides her false palms

over the beige carpet, feeling every fiber,

and the room responds, growing brighter.

She rises and taps knuckles against drywall.

It feels solid. Every touch lends

a bit more reality. Perfect.

She wants just enough detail

to stay anchored to the scene but not

enough to forget she's not really there.

Downstairs, she suddenly thinks.

You'll find him downstairs.

Find who? She doesn't remember,

but someone important. She runs

out of the room and down the stairs,

around a hallway and into a kitchen

as the house rumbles and the walls cave in.

She stumbles out of a back door onto

a large wooden deck coated

with powdery snow speckled with red.

The woods around her are white,

but the air is perfectly warm.

Snowfall intensifies.

There is no sign of life

in this silent landscape of the mind.

She feels utterly alone, but

she knows he must be here somewhere.

Steaming flakes melt into her scalp,

dampening her hair and running down

her anxious face like bloody tears.

She feels her control slipping but

she concentrates across the porch

to see the body that she felt,

to confirm or dismiss her growing panic.

Sure enough, a figure flickers

like the flashes of a camera.

I appear,

startled at first, but when we lock eyes,

she sees a recognition in mine.

She stares harder but the scene rebels

against the effort. The sky burns,

houses crumble, woods vanish.

Only the deck and my image remain.

Remember to find him -

The porch collapses.

- have to -

There is nothing

-remember -

left but snow,

hot snow smothering everything,

piling up around her, blotting

out the sun. She is surrounded

by red darkness and a burning

that extracts all the snow's moisture,

and pressure runs along her side.

She jolts