She paces through a five-hour delay on their three-
hour flight, while she sits, nursing a hangover.
She tips six people twenty percent from the hotel
to their home. She leaves two passports almost forgotten
in their cab. She finds her set of keys in her pocket
after she digs through four bags. She finds
three pans she thought she'd cleaned crusting over
in the sink. They find one cat, stepping around
many broken shards on the floor in front
of their bookcase. They are two voices, rising.
They are two voices shouting over one meow.
That night she dreams of glass vases, asleep
on the right side of their bed. She dreams of ginkgo
trees, asleep on the left side of their bed.
She dreams of dirt and birds, asleep at the foot
of her owners' bed.
The glass vase melts, a glowing ball
in their fireplace. She holds the blowpipe. She breathes
into the glass, but it sucks up — her throat
becomes the vase. She's nudged, cracking on
the floor. She cools.
In the yard, the ginkgo trees
are female. They drop their fruit. They live in her childhood
home. Her dog is there — he farts and eats
the ginkgo fruit. The ginko leaves are dollar
bills. Everything is farts: the dog, the fruit.
When she says, no more vacations, she hears, I hated
Vegas, you lost two month's rent and bought souvenirs
for your mother, who doesn't like souvenirs.
When she says, I like dogs, cats suck, she hears, I hate
your kitten who licked your face when your parents
told you an abortion would have been better.
When she says, it was my grandmother's, she hears,
when we came home and found it shattered I saw
my family broken all over again. She hears:
listen. She says: let me speak. She turns away.
In her dream the birds bathe with dirt. She pounces
on their feathers, catching dust clouds. Her paws
trap the wings and their bodies squeak like mice.
She'll kill one as a present for her big hairless cats
so they don't leave again and always stay to pet her.
She'll be warm with sleep. She'll eat. She'll purr.