Last night you died in my dream.
We were laughing up the hill when the stupid car came out of nowhere, barreling.
When the day had cleared, a little girl pointed at the red on the sidewalk and said, ice cream.
How’s that for irony.
You’re eating cherry sorbet in the living room.
The laundry won’t fold itself.
The dishes are waiting for their bath.
The plants need haircuts.
Some man on television is screaming, his lower lip foaming.
Cut to an open book with doodle stains.
A jar of blunt pencils.
Chamomile flowers dusted across the countertop like beautiful ash.
Everything is in place.
You wonder why I look at you this way.
(© Phoebe Pan 2018)