Jeweled Astronaut's Graying Reflection

Dream Journal Revised

The nightmares arrive
with a queer mix of dread
and creative satisfaction.

Clones walk among towns,
spawning in finer clothes
than their originals,
smug and expressionless.

A woman folding laundry
in a hotel basement
watches her double
saunter by
in a glamorous 1950s-style suit,
sneering.

The rule is unspoken,
absolute.
You cannot acknowledge
your clone.

Disgust is permitted.
Silence is survival.
Speak their name
and you will be maimed.

In orbit, the clones return
as clay astronauts,
doll-like, doll-eyed.

Faceless giant
presses jewels into their feet.
Diamonds confer coolness.
Sapphire makes you savvier.
Each gem turning
the kaleidoscope of traits.

Later the dream crawls inward.
I lift a layer of my hair
and find it gray beneath.

To others,
my appearance is unmarred,
but I know the truth.

Wire strands of silver
a premature crown of wisdom.
Then the resentment:

How quickly I have grown
withered and old,
how caretaking
locked me in an orbit
I cannot escape.