All My Dreams Lately Are About Real Estate
Tour the hidden gem my dad’s death left: It’s a party trick. The more you look the less you notice.
The more the floor sticks. How bill collectors would scold me on the phone when my mom wasn’t
home, I can’t afford it and it’s mine. But it could be all yours: Imagine, a slice of heaven, a turnkey
vivisection. Imagine the sun coming through, a window in the shower—frosted of course—this
isn’t one of those dreams where you’re overexposed. Too much of you and too little clothes. It’s a
business proposal. Imagine: lingering on some other precipice. Imagine a spaghettification you
can take pride in. Your red sauce on the backsplash. Research says: more money, more happiness.
Each day the foundation and I wake with new cracks, my hands blistered from solution and
dissolution, all the dirt getting in, the miscellaneous lotions. Imagine: a beacon in the driftless
through complicated times. Imagine seeing yourself in that transformed surface. I slide
caterpillars of dust from the fan, announce This is unprecedented in the history of fan-dust! Here
in this crook of floor-plan, you can easily build in something about trust. Research says the have’s
are happiest. And what wouldn’t you give to stop feeling like the cow or the farmhouse or the lip
of the tornado, any second swallowed into dust or swallowing? Imagine a closet reserved only for
softness. Imagine walking distance. Imagine double sink. Imagine more hollow then you’ll ever
need. I find an envelope, unsealed, in an old Cub Foods bag, barely cupping the ashes of my father’s
father. A sandy-gray Grandpa Larry poofs into the air. There is always loss to own up to or prepare
for. Why not here? Research shows the rich are happiest. These skeleton keys are burning a hole
in my pocket. Imagine, someone else’s glitter on the gossamer, your carpets sparkling endless. The
more money you are
the more this life could
come home to, the more this life
could become home to
The more the floor sticks. How bill collectors would scold me on the phone when my mom wasn’t
home, I can’t afford it and it’s mine. But it could be all yours: Imagine, a slice of heaven, a turnkey
vivisection. Imagine the sun coming through, a window in the shower—frosted of course—this
isn’t one of those dreams where you’re overexposed. Too much of you and too little clothes. It’s a
business proposal. Imagine: lingering on some other precipice. Imagine a spaghettification you
can take pride in. Your red sauce on the backsplash. Research says: more money, more happiness.
Each day the foundation and I wake with new cracks, my hands blistered from solution and
dissolution, all the dirt getting in, the miscellaneous lotions. Imagine: a beacon in the driftless
through complicated times. Imagine seeing yourself in that transformed surface. I slide
caterpillars of dust from the fan, announce This is unprecedented in the history of fan-dust! Here
in this crook of floor-plan, you can easily build in something about trust. Research says the have’s
are happiest. And what wouldn’t you give to stop feeling like the cow or the farmhouse or the lip
of the tornado, any second swallowed into dust or swallowing? Imagine a closet reserved only for
softness. Imagine walking distance. Imagine double sink. Imagine more hollow then you’ll ever
need. I find an envelope, unsealed, in an old Cub Foods bag, barely cupping the ashes of my father’s
father. A sandy-gray Grandpa Larry poofs into the air. There is always loss to own up to or prepare
for. Why not here? Research shows the rich are happiest. These skeleton keys are burning a hole
in my pocket. Imagine, someone else’s glitter on the gossamer, your carpets sparkling endless. The
more money you are
the more this life could
come home to, the more this life
could become home to
Ginger Ayla (she/her) is a writer and poet who lives on the Colorado-New Mexico border with her partner and their beloved troublemakers Winnie, Olive, and Bug. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in PRISM International, The Boiler, Phoebe, Grist, and elsewhere, and has been nominated for the Best New Poets Anthology. She’s fueled by coffee, nature, and reality TV.
Beaver Magazine 