i have slow and steady dreams in which people speak a different language than i do. they’re telling me something vitally important, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me until i crumble like a cheesecake base. in the morning, i stand in the doorway and wait for the motion sensor lights to feel me before i take another step, and they stutter alive, one by one. in the candy store, my shoes ever-so-meekly stick to the floor with the corn syrup or the brown sugar or just because the night shift didn’t mop very well, and i feel the sugar thickening the air, too. I know a 12-year-old who doesn’t speak, except to his brother, and only to ask for food. i haul 5-gallon buckets and watch military ads until i’m blue in the face, and people keep shaking my shoulders