you dream with one eye open
in fear that they might be stolen
by your mother and sold
in the market because she said
            dreams are worthless,
            they cannot fill bellies,
            only empty ambitions
            that leave fields dry, untended.
to chase them would mean returning
as ghosts of regret and hunger. ghosts
will only return to sparse harvests,
because the thirst of their dreams
quenched on rain and water
that the fields do not fight for.
             
you cannot protect your family with dreams.
you cannot protect yourself with dreams
when reality is ready with shackles
when you realize the time you have lost.
and yet you
            keep chasing,
            keep watering,
            keep feeding
while
            your flesh thins,
            your eyes droop,
            your bones break,
            your mind withers,
            your family gone.
and you wonder if it was worth
killing what was living for what
your family had told you was dead.
              
but at the center of the field
            without wheat,
            without stalk,
            without farmers,
is you with upturned soil,
a single bud cupped between your hands
from the wind you refuse to tremble its roots.
when your mother returns to see you
with your dead dreams cupped in your hands,
            she pries,
            desperately,
but you have let go once,
and you will never let go again.
you know when all else is gone,
your dream will remain—
—even if it’s a nightmare.

© 2025 Ai Jiang