into the dreamscape

once I asked my sister about her dreams

. . . and the dreamscape shifts
to white and gold,
with dark browns swimming
in cinnamon songs,
and a guinea pig sits, her
legs folded like a yogi,
eyes closed.

if she had said something,
it would have been the answer
to everything.

but she isn't talking.
her silence is white—as loud
as blood rushing through veins, as crushing
as the gold of velvet—

and my mouth opens
to taste,
to absorb,
to become,

and the dreamscape shifts . . .

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