Synecdoche

Every night, I pray for clarity, for something. I dream 

the weirdest dreams of my life, struggle to get up, force 

myself to forget. Over morning coffee, I gossip with God. 

Was the dream real? Did a one-year old really  drive a car 

for her mother? Did the mother really look at me like that? 

Was I, can I, really be that stupidly kind? The mother’s let out 

of jail and I think hm, that really did nothing. I try the Coke-

Dr. Pepper combination in real life and it really is bad. 

The common theme is stress: I can’t remember 

the phone number, can’t find the receipt, the time changes 

at its own will. God, I think, God I ask: is 

Your coffee sweet enough? 

(With a selected line from Jubi Arriola-Headley’s Still, Life)