Terese Svoboda Each dream bears a nut these days: She is cruel. Was she always? The nut opens: Inside is the suicide who walks herself to death, and a friend, drinking in the living room. Or is she the mother? It’s time to forgive her her hemlock, its sloppiness, its anger. She’s happy. I wait until childhood matures, the sugar turning. I let the heart burn from the awful I love you’s late in the afternoon when she...