Freudian Injunction

I turned to you in the morning

      I said—

you talked in your sleep.

      You sleep said—

Julia, Julia. What are we.

And I dreamt about

      finding a shoe, my shoe

      losing it  

      and not being able to find it again. 

Be original, for Chrissake—

      you said

And got up to brush your teeth

Even though you never have morning breath.

Julia seemed to have slipped your mind. 

I imagined a litany of things, and then—

      All right—

what about the rabbits that died

and that psychologist who plucked out their retinas

lit them up like Christmas bulbs

and found an image of black bars burned deep in the back? 

An image of their cages 

I think that’s the most terrible thing

That ever broke my heart—

      my voice fell, but nobody caught it. 

You put on your shoes, left.

But I was still stuck on the rabbits.