a raven flies off with my penis. What was it? my wife wants to know. You were yelling. I'm behind the morning paper. I can't remember, I tell her. What's the point in talking about it? It was a dream — ravens are unpredictable. Well you were yelling, she says. It had to be something! I'm lost in the sports page. I make like I don't hear her — spare me the Freud. Ravens cache things don't they? Under leaves, behind a log?