Last night I was a tourist in my dream
unable to decipher the price tags
of sequined blouses I wanted to buy
for friends, being neither sparkly nor
diaphanous myself and feeling rushed
as shopkeepers closed the stores by folding
them shut like origami movie sets.
Time snaps a dishcloth against my thigh
saying “gotcha” and running from the room,
while we’ve squandered 13 cancer-free years
with our heads still down, as if this life
was something to get through, work to shoulder—
years that should have been a blessing, that were
a blessing, if only we’d opened our eyes.
