Zygote In My Coffee (Her Breath)
after Brian Fugett
I suppose her breath was nice.
I dreamt about her three times.
She was watching tv all alone.
She was sitting on a big pillow.
The corner of the tv had what
looked like a Post-it-note, and
above her was a halo suspended
over her head. I saw angel wings
in the shadows. I saw a funny
look in her face, like she smelled
something bad. Her dark hair
covered one of her eyes. I saw
smalls insect crawl in her eye
not covered by her hair. Their
small faces looked like her.
It was half past two am as I
slipped out of the dream.
I watched a moth in the room.
Flutters is what I named it.
I went around in tiny circles.
It was next to the one lightbulb
that was always smoldering.
I named that lightbulb she.
I gave descriptions, names to things.
I did not name it her. I named
her my favorite magazine.
I suppose her breath was nice.
I was back in the dream and
this time she was reciting haikus.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works in the mental health field. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Mad Swirl, The Literary Underground, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Webzine. His latest chapbook was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. His latest poetry book was published by Rogue Wolf Press.
