“I dreamed about masturbating on the highway shoulder,” he tells me. “Standing in some bushes. I turned and saw a corpse right behind me, by the side of the road. A cop pulled over. I said, ‘I know this looks bad, Officer, but I wasn’t masturbating to the dead body.’ He didn’t believe me. I went to prison.”
            I am either imagining this man bashing the bishop or imagining him in prison. Imagining him in front of a dead body by which he is theoretically not aroused. I think, this man understands me. I think, I will place hidden cameras inside his mind. But I don’t need cameras—I know as well as you do that the devil’s in the discoveries as much as in the details. I’ll discover wide swaths of information that don’t require minutiae to speak blackness from one tongue to another. I’ll hold his eyes open and see nothing that will make me look away. I know as well as you do that the devil’s in our dreams. I’ll join his self-lovemaking, and there will be no dead bodies, only little deaths everywhere.

Deirdre Coyle is a non-practicing mermaid living in New York City. Her writing has been published in theNewerYork, Fwriction : Review, Control Literary Magazine, Internet Poetry, and elsewhere. You can find her at and @DeirdreKoala.