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.