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.