Relapse Dream Ending with My Grandmother's Hands

I announce myself in the opera house: rosary beads and du’as.
There are two arrows and I bury the second in my thigh.

There are two houses and I’m always like this when he leaves.
All I know of winter is I cusp West when it starts,

start talking Texas again, googling casitas with blooms
of cacti at the door. I don’t know if I’d call what I do love,

this raking of hot coals, like how I cried during the ectopic
and said, We just bought this house, I wanted to be happy in it,

and you looked at me strange and said, A good house
can carry anguish, and this is how I think of bodies now too.

It is July in the dream, and I buy crystals from a bodega
and they open into liquor bottles, mezcal made in Oaxaca,

my tongue waking. I am all spiders scrabbling for a corner.
A knot freckling the Milky Way. I am both the prophecy

and the ambush of hearing it. I was afraid for days
after the healing ceremony, convinced I’d wasted the gas money.

That’s how it works, the dream-turtle tells me. All that dread coming out
like gunk from an engine. In recovery,

they say play the tape until the end. What are you recovering?
a man in dream-Jerusalem asks. We are in church

and I still have the bottle. I explain about ghosts that can’t swallow,
but the ground is already shaking. Cleaving.

I vacuum the sun back up into my backpack. I kiss the open flowers.
I kiss the open flowers. I kiss them with Fatima’s hands.