Too Good at Dreaming by Bogdan Dragos

the maggots are never

dirty

even though they

live in

filth

their whiteness

remains

immaculate somehow

They reach out and

emerge

wiggling from the

rotten flesh. Either

searching for

the meaning of

life

or offering an answer

to it

It was hard to decide

watching

them from above

but the younger the

eye, the blinder

to reality

“I like this one,” said

the little girl,

touching and caressing

the back of one

not much slimmer than

her finger. “I think I’ll name

him Bread. I like

bread.”

“Me too,” said the boy. “And

I like… this

one.” He pointed at another

just as big. I’ll name

her… Mother. Because

I miss her.”

“Oh, me too.”

“She told us that a day

will come

when we’ll have to be

the ones

taking care of her.”

“Oh, but when will

that day come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when