I only cry in my dreams. It’s called Oneiric Onion Syndrome.
You’d think I’m unhappy, or inhibited, or something. I don’t think I’m any of these things.
I go to Jets games and tailgate. I laugh and scream. Everything’s fine. I said, everything’s fine.
My doctor says she thinks I cry in my dreams because I wake up with my sheets wet.
I am a very happy woman. I solve crossword puzzles. I solve them during Jets games. Maybe I am doing this to assert my agency when my husband brings me to watch a shitty team that never wins.
My doctor has green eyes like emeralds, like Jets uniforms. I bet my husband doesn’t know what color my eyes are. I want my doctor to tackle me, pin me down and whisper OOS in my ear.
OOS may be an acronym for Oneiric Onion Syndrome, but it feels like the sweet release through breath of all the dreams I don’t remember. When I say OOS, I shudder inside and I see my body hurtling through space like a field goal kick.
I want my doctor to run her tongue through all of my ear piercings, which are like a maze. I hope her tongue, the one that gently tells me I am OK inside, becomes my prisoner.
Isn’t it onerous to keep showing up to watch a team that is less likely to win than you are likely to adopt a dog with three different eye colors?
Let’s open up all the chakras through moaning, which is what you do if you’re a soprano instead of meditative droning. Aristotle may have give us the Poetics, but Diogenes gave us the Onomatopoetics. That dude was always murmuring under his breath.