“Untitled” By Thalia Cuello

Don’t wake him, that’s the first thing you think
when you find your sleeping lover walking
through the house at night.

Remember your cousin, when
you were eight or nine, who told
you about a boy who was woken
while sleepwalking, and the shock
killed him. Dead, right there, boom, your
cousin said, smacking her hands together.

Your lover washes his hands at the sink,
eyes closed, and you wonder
what he is dreaming about: cooking?

Remember the time you dreamed
about standing in a kitchen at night and your
great grandmother, years in the grave,
sat at the table, asking you to make
potato pancakes with sour cream and chives.

But, you only had a fridge filled with asparagus
and lemons. In dreams you should, at least,

be able to please the dead. And sitting
down beside your great grandmother
you began to weep, and she cradled you in her arms.
The tears sustenance enough.

Your lover walks to the window, still
sleeping, and presses his forehead to the glass.
You wonder if the cold would wake him. Then,
you notice he is crying. Tears from out of his
closed eyes.

What dreams do we dream, you wonder, when
we think we are unwatched? You want to hold
him, lead him back to bed, but don’t wake him,
you think. Let him


By Chloe Clark