I don’t want a dead wish, yet invisible intruders wield lethal weapons. Their boss, Fear, weighs three hundred pounds, sits in a swivel chair in front of a flat-screened T.V., smokes a cigar, and laughs at my dreams. He directs L.A. traffic from his penthouse in New York, where my visions began. Get your head out of the clouds, young lady. Who do you think you are?

I did not want to be a girl who measured words, but one who feasted upon them. I did not want to be a girl who hid in closets, but one who opened doors. I did not want to be a girl who side-stepped trouble, but one who could navigate any maze.

The wish police have me by the throat. Tell us everything you know, they say. Are you willing to pour your blood into a container that may leak?

I nod, and they leave, tsk-tsking while shaking their swollen bald heads.

I give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to my dreams. Clear their throats of obstructions. Palpate their hearts. I am done dancing Flamenco in a chicken coop, refuse to crush one more egg beneath my heels.

*Margaret Atwood, from Section 5 of her poem “Another Visit to the Oracle” in her book The Door (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2007).

Bio: Bella Mahaya Carter