Split in a Dream

A dream tiptoes in a warning trance,
through Rem sleep’s instant flick
in complicated rhythms, where I look
in the mirror and recognize, like Baudelaire,
I am someone else, a lady cut in two,
a magician’s sidekick, partial to the part I play.
As one piece of me flies above my house,
the other piece gets lost in the clouds.

In this zone more candid than awakening,
the magician calls me back to perform,
and I am whole again, but now, the piano
I am supposed to play is missing octaves
and the existing keys are soundless; thus,
I am ordered to play an antique clavier
that falls apart when I touch. “Well, this is
too much,” a spectator says. “It is all her fault.”

“Wait,” I say, “Can I borrow a wand to fix
my music?” The magician nods, extending
his arm and his magic wand cuts me in half.

Dream or not, in a place where truth floats
to the surface and echoes come back
without any invitation, there are things
an interdimensional gizmo cannot mend,
but a magic wand can slice a woman in two.