Our Hole is a Bed, an Ocean, a Grave

by Belicia Rhea

You keep telling me about your dreams, how I’m gone and buried, stuck underground, how you mouth out words but I don’t understand. Then you dig a hole so deep you get lost inside. You shout my name, panic, and worry that I’m dying, because I am—suffocating under shifting rocks, sand filling up my mouth, a pile of wriggling earth.

Last night you were shaking in your sleep. This happens, comes in waves. You wake up yelling, disoriented, or other times you sink, too heavy to put your feet on the ground and pick them back up. Light pours in the curtains at sunrise, but sometimes you’re still gone. You’re in other realms, swimming and digging and flying and trapped, and even if you float out—you’re strapped to the mattress because this world is too dangerous and you worry you won’t make it home if you go out the front door.

You mumbled like you were lost. I wanted to touch your shoulder, tell you it’s all right, tell you I’m not going anywhere, that I would never leave. But I was afraid to startle you, drag you somewhere worse. Then you went silent, became still, and I stared at you a long time.

And I’m sorry, I don’t know why our hands don’t clasp fast enough, why you can’t break the window before the seawater fills the car. What happened that night on the beach? The tide pulled faster than I could swim. After the soil dried and you shoveled through the earth, couldn’t you breathe life back inside of my body? Would you have held dead me in your arms? You said you shouted as loud as you could, but when you turned to look at the faces peering over the hole, you were alone.

Today you couldn’t get out of bed. You weren’t you when you opened your eyes. The aquamarine blanket draped over you looked heavy, your body tiny underneath. The TV flickered in the corner and you laughed, but I don’t know if you were really laughing or just pretending—you looked like an imitation of yourself, checking in from away.

I worry about the ways you’ve vanished, how each day deflates you to nothing. You talk about wings, but they aren’t beautiful, and I can’t figure out what you’re staring at because I never see anything when I look.

You said you were ready for the big sleep. I said no, I’m still here, just look for me, I’m here. But off you went, grabbed your shovel, fingernails dirty again. I yelled at you to stop, that you’ll hurt yourself, that you won’t be able to crawl out this time. But you never listen to me, not now, not then, not when we skipped the railing and plunged into the bay.

So I have to dig my way out. Punch at the bitter air, claw for you, float around in the breeze that I can’t remember anymore after the sea and soil ruined me, grip at your wrist, pull you down, hold you close until your lungs shrivel. Then I’ll cover us with the dirt. Pack your nostrils with soil, and you’ll breathe it in, the arid perfume of my decomposition.

Your eyes are wet like the sea, like our last earthly night, like how it felt underwater.

How many nights has it been? I can’t remember anymore. Our hole is a bed is an ocean, and I’m dreaming, seeing you in the far distance of the shore, the pinks and purples above meet in coils. Your hair is flying in the wind and you’re smiling, even as your head hits the steering wheel, mine slams against the window. I’m confused why the sky looks like it’s taking over the sea, glistening bright and blinding—how everything’s blurry, too heavy, no air, and you’re getting smaller, disappearing, and I can’t reach you. If I don’t blink, I can still make you out. I’m feeling hazy, like I think you’re looking at me but I can’t tell because you’re just a speck, and I’m not sure if I’m seeing your hair, or eyes, or body, what part of the dark is the you I’m looking at, how to know if you’re looking back, which piece of you is which. I can feel your breath on mine, and like I always tell you, forever, I’m here. I just need to concentrate, dig around for our bones, inhale your sweat, the rot of your underarms, keep looking for you in the grainy dots of this casket.

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About the Author

Belicia Rhea was born under a waning crescent moon in the Sonoran Desert. You can find her at beliciarhea.com and read more of her work published in or forthcoming from Bending Genres, Miracle Monocle, and Frozen Wavelets, among other places.