David Lynch is holding me underwater, one hand covering my mouth and the other

stroking my hair.

Through the water bubbles I can see that he is

                                                                          smiling.

I’m afraid to take in a breath because.

There’s no telling where I’ll end up. 
            There’s someone standing over his shoulder and at first I think

            it’s Jesus 

            with that dark skin and thick beard. Part of me thinks

            this wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

            Part of me thinks, hey Jesus, let’s get together. And also, no.
I think I’m kicking my feet but I’m not sure. Do I still have feet?
David Lynch looks angry. He is not

                                                                  smiling

He is stroking my hair but now he’s pulling it, pushing his fingers to the roots, my scalp,

and scraping.

It doesn’t hurt, but I think, I’d like to get up now.
            My chest hurts where my lungs are shrinking into empty plastic bags.

            That you might kick out of the way and they might get swept up

            under car tyres or end up in landfill.

                                                                                           Those are my lungs.
David Lynch is looking back at Jesus. They talk but I don’t hear them because I’m

underwater. Jesus nods and leans closer, over me. I think he’s wearing a dark suit, and

I want to tell him, you look nice and maybe we should go out somewhere after this.

Like, for thickshakes at Rosie’s.