The National Museum of dreams
is closed on Mondays. Ad Infinitum.
In the petting zoo, a lamb rehearses
Bach’s requiem. You can’t sleep.
You imagine you’re a butcher;
your mother awakens on the table
& in front of all the other men
grabs your cleaver & wags it at you
shouting, don’t you dare mention my
appendectomy. Your written exam asked
Heart? & you answered B, the empty
chamber of a gun. Even the shooting
range is closed on Mondays. Rehearse
in your glass house, a requiem
for the final dream – beneath your ribs
that catatonic feeling. You are adding
an appendix to the list of Monday’s closures:
the melodies of caged animals, it begins,
jars of morning air, the instrumental
ache of hunger.