Rohma Shah

* i dreamed the dream of a hungry man; and awoke to a belly yet full, a cupboard unbarren and varied

i dreamed the dream of a thirsty man; and awoke to the trickle of a stream out back, a patter of rain against my sill

i dreamed the dream of an angry man; and awoke to a rage abated, a visage needing but a nudge into a grin

i dreamed the dream of a hopeless man; and awoke in a state of grace, suffused forgiveness in my heart and light

i dreamed the dream of a crazy man; and awaken and kneel to the benevolent, almighty, exalted sir tiddlywump III, who keeps me safe from harm while i sleep

Someone stands in the kitchen, a tray of twelve unbaked cookies before her. The air hums with lemon, sugar, and butter—a scent like her grandma’s kitchen, though no one stirs beside her now. She works alone. This recipe is hers to ruin, to alter, to claw back from failure again and again. Safe in this: no matter how they emerge—lopsided, burnt, brittle as bone—she’ll be the only tongue to judge them.

Last week’s batch hardened into bricks. She’d forgotten them in the oven, lost in the fractured space her mind occupied. Her failures catalog themselves: a ledger etched where no one reads.

The oven light flickers as she reaches inside—not a malfunction, but a recognition. Tray slid in, timer set: twenty minutes, no more, no less. Then, the ritual’s quiet sacrament: the bowl’s leftover dough, clinging to the spoon. She licks it clean. For a moment, the dead taste life.

Today, the cookies rise perfect. Golden. Unbroken.

This terrifies her.

What happened in those twenty minutes? The recipe shouldn’t yield perfection—not for hands like hers. If the lemon cookies are flawless, what excuse remains for the pages that bleed vitriol at midnight? If this works, is she done?

She leaves them on the counter overnight, praying dawn will warp them—let the cold stale their edges, let flies speckle their tops. Let them be ruined, so she may begin again.

She wants to love them. Wants to love anything the way her presence once did.

She knows she can’t.

This is how the dead practice living:

one part butter,

two parts longing,

a pinch of salt

stolen from a wound

that scabbed over

years ago.

2.7 grams—

the weight of a decision