Freud Tells the Blob to Journal its Sex Dreams
In this dream I have a body. In this dream I wish I didn’t have a body. You are in the backyard with our friends. In the kitchen little pink worms of meat separate while I pack hamburger into discs for a summer barbecue. They reattach under the pressure of my thumb the way damp clay accepts more of itself. Unlike my mouth that finds your shoulder the way magnets find paperclips, your bone crashes into my teeth before I can open wide enough to fit you. When I tell you I love you, I also mean I love the way people look at you when you are not looking. Somewhere there is a meat grinder big enough for both of us. Someday I’ll be able to hold you as if taking communion. This morning while you slept, I pulled you into me and squeezed until you wheezed in my ear, the whole time wondering why I can’t be more of you than I am right now.
Jon Tobias is an MFA Poetry Candidate at San Diego State University. He is the author of the chapbook, Talking to Ghosts, published by Quillkeepers Press. His poems have appeared in print and online with Quillkeepers Press, Zone 3, White Stag Publishing, and Kindabummed Magazine. His flash fiction has appeared online and in print by A Word With You Press.