• Olivia E. Olson

Dear Mathilde: April 3, 2020

Dear Mathilde:

Shame you had to work today-- the weather’s just what you love. Dusk, weak sun. Kids hang their coats like limp lungs and it smells of blood and of cheap cereal.

Bent over on tiptoe, we’re sneaking through another season. Hush love he’ll hear us walking. Give us another day of it.

I dreamt up one horror after the other all night-- giraffes with thick, muscled throats and buck teeth. A bath in a crumbling castle filling up and up and over. Rain turned to dust turned to letters flicked from your fingernail into a basketful.

Our love, the clockmaker, woke wagging his head. Our dreams are busted, his sleep’s busted, someone’s adjusted his meds again. Where to go when the dreamworld won’t take you, waiting and waiting outside its gates. The gates have perfect mechanics, you know, but only from the inside.

I heard a long long quiet but he wasn’t sleeping. Help me. It’s going to be a beautiful day again, warm and sunny again. Fifty degrees, they say, all day and sunny. I opened the window just a snatch.

I heard a girl cry, a girl cry. Mathilde my love was it you.

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