I
My husband looks at me, a history of ghost stories in his eyes. My boss questioned me about the dream catcher in my office, he mutters. He wants me to take it down.
I cannot give sound to this feeling inside me. Instead, I reply: Did you?
This corporation is scything away at him. Pandemic or not, everyone is expendable.
I see their grip in his eyes; I hear it in the give of the mattress when he tries to find a comfortable position to fall asleep.
At 4:23 a.m., I feel his warmth moving from me. I open my eyes to see him undressing in the bathroom, stepping into the shower. I dream of the steam of his shower, hands reaching around him from behind and gouging out his eyes.
II
I walk around with a word boiling in my trachea—Maw maw maw maw maw. I know what it means, but I look it up anyway. I do this sometimes when I need to dispel a word from my body. I confront its meaning and then I recast it into a new knot of my lexicon. Make the word mine.
Is it in the maw that I ache or am I misunderstanding? Perhaps I’m the one disappearing into obscure jaws—perhaps I’m being consumed. I wish this word never found its way into my body.
III
I’m rummaging through old binders from the years I taught high school English; neatly bound records of every lesson in the exact order they were taught. I see my handwriting, a box drawn in pink pen. In the margin, next to a Desmond Tutu metaphor: Make sure students understand how apt this is! What are the characteristics of a sore that will not heal—
I shiver, slam the binder shut.
IV
I dream of a giant mouth, open wide. It’s consuming everyone around me. My students’ faces crumble, screaming out to me for help.
Pain splays itself across my back. Metal strikes against my right scapula. From my childhood, my father’s dumbbells; each blow subdues me. I cannot move. Pinned down, I witness as my daughters are disfigured by my deepest fears, by everything I’ve tried to save them from.
I can’t reach my phone. I can’t scream. I can’t do anything but witness.
V
My husband stands in our living room, holding a dream catcher carved from wood—its circumference the size of his torso. I thought this would help her sleep.
He hangs the dream catcher above my daughter’s bed. An employee made it for me, he explains to her. She’s fourteen and already knows how anxiety can slice layers of skin right off her body’s assuredness, how it can leave her exposed in her bloodless, mutilated shell.
For the first night in months, I do not hear her tiptoeing around the house at night, peeking her head into our bedroom when she thinks we’re asleep.
VI
I feel the acid in my stomach before I realize I’m awake. Without my glasses, I can’t see the clock. My instincts tell me it’s that languid, menacing space before dawn. It’s the time of day when I trust myself the least. There’s a dream lingering near my temples, or perhaps creeping near my cerebrum. I can’t remember it, but I can feel what remains: What about what about what about?
Sometimes I lay in bed wondering, What about. My security makes me feel uneasy.
I turn to find my husband; he’s not there.
I peek through my eldest daughter’s door first, trying to stop the door from whimpering in its uncanny way. She’s motionless, intertwined in dreams.
My youngest daughter sleeps too, beneath a dream catcher like her own personal moon. Eyes closed, I remember the birthmark beneath my mother’s knee. The mark of the moon, she once told me.
VII
I lay on his shoulder as we fall asleep. I place my palm on the bare skin atop his heart. Like outstretched limbs, his breathing elongates. I’m sure I feel the rhythm falter. I can feel something gripping at the meat of his heart. I imagine myself spherical and woven, absorbing whatever it is that makes him wince in his dreams. My kiss on his chest wakes him. He studies me. I watch him. It’s the first time he lets me look into his eyes in months.
I’m awake first. Maw maw maw maw maw. It’s back. I let nausea lap over me. Oh, how I’ve become accustomed to new comforts, the assuredness of nausea and me.
I realize it’s 6:46 a.m., and my husband is still asleep.
VIII
We meet for tacos—mine vegetarian, his meat. I try not to notice. We order takeout and eat at a park; a small quilt of dead grass far from people and contagions.
He tells me about his dream: a corporate manager was in his store, but he couldn’t find him no matter how much he searched. I was running everywhere. I was so confused.
IX
I receive a call from Public Health. Your daughter came in direct contact with someone that tested positive for COVID-19. Her school took the proper measures to keep her safe, but she will need to quarantine for two weeks.
I watch my seventeen-year-old daughter lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. So much for senior year. I remind her that it could be worse. I share some of my what abouts with her. She curls into a fetal position; says she knows I’m right and whispers: Just let me say this sucks.
X
Another sleepless night. I shop online. At 1:45 a.m. my husband comes home. Briefly, I think I see death in his eyes.
I don’t know how to help him.
I don’t know how to sleep.
XI
I’m typing in my office when my husband texts me. It’s been a day.
I ask if he’s okay.
Just got a death threat. This guy that doesn’t even work for me. I didn’t give his mom a promotion. Told me to watch my back.
Like Alice, I’m falling. I want to find this person. I want broken skin. I want bruises on my fists. I want blood.
I text: Did you call the police? It will be okay.
XII
Public Health again. Someone in your daughter’s cohort has tested positive for COVID-19. She will need to quarantine again. She should stay in her room and wear a mask if she walks around the house. Do you have a backyard? That’s a great way to get in some movement.
Standing in our living room, I gaze at our backyard covered in snow from a recent storm. Yes, we have a backyard.
XIII
Mom.
Seventeen. I see things I’ve always tried to fight away in her eyes.
She tells me in a near-whisper that her friend’s grandfather has died. COVID-19.
What do I tell her, mom? I don’t know what to say.
XIV
On Saturday morning, I shrink into a blanket (nothing but head and hands exposed) and scroll through the news on my phone. My husband’s at work; my daughters are sleeping. I read article after article. I vomit.
I stare at my ceiling, at the paint that we never touched up.
During one of my classes a student told us that his culture believes that dreaming of snakes means good fortune is coming. But it has to bite you, he said. That’s what my mom told me. When it bites, good fortune is on the way.
I paused long after he told me this, witnessing the discussion unfurl and sprout anew. I wanted to tell him that the snakes in my dreams never bite; they scream.
Maybe the only thing that’s really universal is cruelty, another student commented. She said it quietly—firm, even voice. I wondered how this conversation metamorphosed so quickly. I wondered if she was right.
I stretch out my feet; fold my body in half. I hug my chest to my legs, close my eyes.
I imagine: sneaking into my youngest daughter’s bedroom, eyes fixed on the dream catcher. Dragging my blanket behind me, I lay on her floor and fall asleep. I dream of water. Of the moon. Of anything but the maw of spirits, of rupture.
I open my eyes: still awake and body ensnared in a pose of desperation, praying for a dream catcher for the shape of my dreams.
Adrianna Sanchez-Lopez writes in an oversized chair located in her San Luis Valley home. She interprets secrets engendered by the night and commits herself to witnessing during the day. Find more of Adrianna’s writing in Ember Chasm Review, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, The Wire’s Dream Magazine, The Nasiona, and elsewhere.
JP Morrison Lans I contrast realistic figurative depictions alongside abstracted representations of the body. These are metaphors for my experiences of womanhood, motherhood, sex, love, loss, self-preservation, panic, desire, and knowing. I use colored pencils to render my hands frequently because they represent my intention and action. I also paint symbolism of the mouth, tongue and teeth because this space is the gateway between inner self and outer world. Through mouth and hand, I experience intimacy and desire. They create boundaries while also being entry points. Born in Detroit Michigan and raised in Oklahoma, my figurative work has earned seven solo exhibitions and the commission of three large-scale installations. I received my BFA from the Kansas City Art Institute in 2007, and co-owned and curated the Grothaus+Pearl Gallery during this time. In 2013 I moved to Queensland Australia, where my work was acquired for the collection of the Bundaberg Regional Gallery. This year I have enjoyed the insights from two residencies, at the School of Visual Arts NYC and the Truro Art Center, Cape Cod. My child and I experiment with play-doh and encaustics -respectively- in our home studio in Tulsa, Oklahoma.