Sometimes I dream barnacle dreams,
and sleep uneasily on my back, nerves insisting
that I should be stuck to damp wood,
though I've never pressed my skin
against a ship's hull. Nerves insisting
that my mouth is vestigial
and full of hallucinated saltwater,
which spills through clenched teeth,
leaves my lower lip beaded
with phantom trails, leaves my face sticky
with crystals of thirst.
Dreams like this, I
can see how we conceived of re-
incarnation.
But if this is an afterlife,
it's a hell.
(How I hate having a shell).
