I dreamed I had sex with a two-headed woman. One head was normal; the other was faceless, hairless, blank, like a lightbulb of flesh — or, Lord knows, the head of a penis. The normal head belonged to a former lover. I wanted to ask how long she’d had this second head, but was too embarrassed to admit I’d never noticed it before. I woke up wondering whether I should’ve kissed it. Rain was drumming on the roof.

The next night I’m writing a poem in Spanish, searching my dusty memory for the right word: Is it muro — wall — or pared — wall — or muralla — wall — or barrera — wall — or tapia — wall? La pared, I think. The word must end in a consonant, tongue vibrating against the alveolar ridge. Se prohibe la entrada. “Something there is that doesn’t love…” But those words aren’t in my dream. Solamente el muro y la pared. Words for what refuses communication.

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