Sometimes I think about how
I love you even in my dreams.
One night, I imagined we were
spies, traveling to a mansion in
a bathtub instead of car, and you
pressed my back against the cold
tile when you kissed me. But, a
different night, the train you rode
slewed off its tracks into a ravine
while I watched through the glass
windows of a diner. I will never
forget how I chewed my tongue
while I looked for your body in the
rocks and twisted metal. For hours
I convinced myself you were alive;
only when I woke up were you dead.
Those four minutes—when writing
your eulogy was more impossible
than any traveling bathtub and my
bedsheets were a concrete casket—
that was the nightmare. But then you
told me good morning, and I was
back in my dreams. Funny how my
mind taught me what losing you feels
like, so I will never let myself wake up
against anything but our cold tiles.
Jenna Mather is a graduate of the University of Iowa, where she studied English and creative writing. With her poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction, she tries to untangle the complexities of love, womanhood, and the writing life. On any given day, you can find her in a coffee shop—or online at @_jennamather and jennamather.com.