The Book of Weston

Always look in the dream-mirror,

against your better judgement.

You never know what you might see because

dream-mirrors reflect perception.

Flick the bathroom light and shield your eyes

from the blinding flash then look

and flinch. The reflection:

painfully hyperreal. Every pore,

every follicle rendered

in nauseous high definition.

The face smiles, and the dream-lips part

to reveal teeth cracked and yellow

like a rusty saw blade.

You reflexively reach up, but

at the slightest touch, the incisor

jumps right out of the dream-mouth

and onto the edge of the sink,

balances stubbornly on its roots

then topples, disappearing into

the black drain of the unconscious.

You tighten the jaw and seal the lips,

but every movement loosens another

tooth and rolls it onto the tongue.

You open and spit and half a dozen

jagged pearls clink onto the porcelain.

Laughter bubbles up out of the dream throat

as you realize what a frightening relief it is

to let go of one's self-image.