Dream: Bottle Tree

Last night I sat underneath my grandmother’s 

mimosa tree, its branches full 

of Milk of Magnesia bottles.

Their glass cast a blue dance

along the grass, clinking

in the wind. The old women

tied each bottle there to hold

a wish or a dream or a memory.

Sometimes, they would breathe

a spirit song into the glass 

before capping it. Either way,

all the branches swayed

heavy with stories. I didn’t have

to turn around to know

the kitchen door behind me

was open to the yard. Inside,

there was plenty flour,

egg wash, busy hands,

chicken parts, and a pressure cooker

heating on the stove. Even

in this dream, laughter glowed.