Mary Coons



There is a summer I stop sleeping.
Every third day I realize that I’m
dreaming of slowly going insane

and I wake up. I see a man by
my closet it’s a coat it’s a sweatshirt it’s
every spider crawling up the corner

of my bed at 4am. I know it’s 4am
but I’m not sure of when. It’s been
five days since I’ve eaten. Every

fifth day I realize that I’m dying. I wake
up with a handful of Froot Loops. I
check the expiration date. Check

the calendar. It’s sometime in July.
Maybe late. The only days I know
when I am are Mondays. Every Monday

I ride the train 70min walk another 20min
to a shelter filled with women. They write
poetry. I write nothing. I go home and sometimes

I sleep. Sometimes I dream that I dreamed
them. That I woke up when I got home.

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