The Dead Zone

Nothing grows for me.

What’s wrong with my hands, what’s wrong with my spirit?

Everything I lay my hands on turns into salt.

Will you light a candle for me?

I dreamt of a corpse last night.

Its bones were turning into dust, and they were gray and delicate.

I sat next to it and wondered who it was.

I wasn’t scared, only curious.

Who could this be?

I wake up and I think about the bones, whose texture felt like velour.

I make my coffee, one sugar, two creams.

Stir, stir.

What is wrong with me?