After my therapist tells me she's not keeping me
I like that
sweater on her
Anyway
I'm going to tell you
the dream I had when I was six —
this is still my therapy.
I tell you my dreams:
walking alone in the desert,
I came upon a giant baby,
a fly
passes me
on the couch
baby bigger
than any building
I’d ever—
she gets the windex
—seen in New York.
Wailing, dying,
no one to hold her.
and she sprays
as it spirals
to the window,
sprays
as it dives
to the wall,
sprays
as it swirls
up the molding
Once I realized
the baby couldn't see me,
that's when I woke up.
windex settles
Partial credit
It's not reasonable that you have to
put sunscreen on perfectly.
That it's not
a job done sufficiently by covering
97% of exposed skin. You get
no credit for total
coverage of your back all day long
from the thin strip at the top
of your thigh, where the bathing suit
grooved in to the crease
rubbing off protection, flesh
blossoming bright crimson
in the shower later that night.
Every inch of you has its own
needs. You got it 97% right. Yet
the 3% is burnt, blistering on
your shoulder for days.
Natalie Jill’s most recent work has appeared or is upcoming in Free State Review, Atlanta Review, Sugar House Review, and Unleash Lit. She is a member of the PoemWorks community in the Boston area.