Paprika Dust

The Sandman sprinkles
dust in my eyes—

Cinnamon, paprika.

I hear the whispers of
a gruff man groaning,
“Goshdarnit, this ain’t
sleep sand,
Marta packed us
the wrong bags
again.”

“Mm,” I say as I crash—

Wisps of another world,
savoring the physics of
other dimensions, floating,
falling, tingly and spicy.

I wake up, not with sleep
in my eyes,
but with
bell pepper,
jaranda,
jariza—

pimentón
agridulce

tears.


D. A. Xiaolin Spires