The baby is not the only
dreamer in this place—

my husband one night sits up,
disapproval on his face.

            What the fuck?  Stop squirting breastmilk
            on my neck.  It’s sticky.

I try to remember doing this,
and that I even consider it
shows the unrealness of our reality.

I like to imagine me standing over him,
a sleepwalker perhaps (and in that sense,
                                    blameless),
breast out and raised like a weapon
in my right hand.

I see in my face a hunger
for his punishment, eyelids
slowly lowering.

I finally pull the trigger and:
milk
            is now
shooting
                        everywhere.

I aim at his face
but it rolls down his chin,
neck rivulets forming
a sort of pearl necklace.