I REGRET TELLING MOTHER THE DREAM | CELESTE PEREZ

 

I once had a dream I was a surrogate mother for my own mother. In the dream I carried a daughter for her; my sister-child! At the hospital I was in labor for two days and I was embarrassed because I was naked except that I was still wearing shoes. They weren't even my shoes. I was so pregnant I could not reach them which means I did not even put on these shoes. Imagine this! Someone had put someone else's shoes on my two feet when I was naked and in labor and alone – they weren't even the shoes I like to wear, which meant I also had an enemy I could not remember. Later on when labor had ceased, my father said he was sorry I was in the hospital with my low immune system. I wanted someone to be sorry that I was wearing strange shoes or that I was exhausted from labor or that I had forgotten to pack my tooth brush and now I could taste dormancy at the core of my palette. 
At these admissions, I was ordered to rest more.
I don't even remember there being a baby.

 

 

 


 
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Celeste Perez is a poet located near Portland, Oregon. Her most inspiring reads currently include anything by Mary Ruefle [Tristimania, My Private Property] as well as her yearly perusal of Hamlet. Her pieces generally explore the ambiguous relationship between the dream and the lucid state through the mingling of prose and poetic language. She graduated from Marylhurst University with her BFA in English literature and writing in June 2017. 

Darla Mottram