During my dreams the world changed—
the water itself took a shape I could touch and love,
rippled and coiled around me
and sang to me, inviting me
to come and drink.

I would weave tapestries out of the soft
silvery seafoam
that was left when I awoke.
I wove, trying to grasp the memories like threads,
to wind my way back along an invisible path
to an underground stream.

During the day I would eat
seaweed, dry and salted.
My thighs grew together, my skin grew scales.
I would soak in the bathtub
until my fingers were prunes.

There is no word for the place where we touch
between the realm of dreams and waking.
My loom is heavy with the weight of your voice.


CATHERINE GARBINSKY is a writer, a witch, and a worrier. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner and her toothless tabby cat. Catherine holds a degree in The Poetics of Transformation: Creative Writing, Religion, and Social Justice from the University of Redlands. She is bipolar, bisexual, rides a bicycle. You can read more of her work at: or Instagram: @catherinegarbinsky.