I dreamt a snake coiled its way into a dog’s head.
The tail burrowing a home into its snout.
I waited for its breath to cut, the orchestra’s final
collapse before the lights go up.
Hamsar is used as a modifier for a partner;
means literally of the same head.
When they say she is sick,
(which could mean
her hands could not unknot themselves
after the stroke, or I hope she
does not drive home in her condition, or
please do not anger Baba;
these pills, the last heart-
beat spares we have left in our pockets)
this means we were a dream or
had once thought we were.
And I think of hamsar–
of the same head. The coupling
of blood. This cankered tree splintering
through our capillaries. This familial wolf that
hunts itself. The frenzied meat I hold
together. How many before me had a snake
curled against their brainstem? Gnawing its own
tail? Already finding its teeth through tissue?
How many will I rear to this table myself?
My blood is an infinite mirror. Runs thick. Runs
naked outside the house. Finds shelter
from itself. Hears the crescendo breaking.