She doesn't dream of dogs. Anymore. Like old email addresses and people in pictures she might think she remembered if she could only figure out how. They don't bark or claw at the fence when she comes. Pink tongues searching her salty skin through the barrier between. She wants blood and guts. Salmon splayed in a memory on her father's sunshine sidewalk. His wrong smile and cherry covered fingertips. The acrid smell of burning turned flesh gone to fire. They nuzzle her. Comfort whimpers through wet dark noses. Instead. These days. No, Asia can't dream of dogs and the cavities where body parts should go. Misplaced emotional disasters. She curls up against the neighbor's fence with her crayola markers. Washable. Draws their forms fiercely. No photographs. No late night phone calls. Only the swell of colors in the sink when she soaks the figures away. Trials of time less well spent and lonely. Down the drain in muddy purple swirls. Not now. No. Asia dreams of tattoos and the world indelible.