Corona Dream

By Yash Seyedbagheri

The crowned lady taunts. She makes me touch my nose and mouth, as if they’re condemned. I thrash in the still of night. The fan thwacks like an executioner’s axe. Thwack, thwack.

I always wake up. It’s a dream. It isn’t. The crowned lady marches through cities, into hills and valleys. I joke about toilet paper hoarders, mock people who react, but don’t act.

But I imagine gasping, fever. Crying to a consumed world. I imagine slipping into slumber. I sterilize, withdraw into ’80s teen movies with neat endings. I tell myself I’m absorbed by ifs.

No fact begins with if.