Somniloquy
“Mierda,” she said,
or I think she said:
It was not a sound she’d make
By day when wide awake,
Nor any time before.
She abhorred vulgarities.
It must have been the storm
That formed whirlwinds in her head
Or odd absurdities,
Or led to such unusual behavior.
What is it in sleep that leads
Us to creep into corners of the mind
That by day are kind,
Polite and unremarkable?
That feed us
Thoughts and utterances undecipherable,
Unimaginable, even at times,
Unfathomable?
I lived the storm with her,
Though I mostly slept to resist
The whirling wind.
She would insist
Then slur
Her words in fright
Until fatigue
Would lead her into dreams.
In those dreams
The word would rise,
A reprise of crass
Vulgarity on lips of innocence.
“Mierda,” she said again
As the storm abated.
I hated what it did to her
And to all of us:
Uprooted trees,
Uprooted family,
Uprooted friends,
Uprooted life.
Mierda, indeed.
