Am I to remain unmoved by how she cries in her sleep?

How do I keep my doubt at bay,

pin down curiosity towards those dreams?

 

Whose death did she foresee?

What plane crash or new born child

Just ruptured through her eyelids?

Am I safe in her sleep?

Or has that bed grown cold towards me?

 

Am I covered and buried too far from home?

Amongst all those heavy sleepers,

Screams are as strong as the breeze,

And memory is a gale storm.

There is warmth in the secrets we keep

Lower than out hearts,

In the upper part of our stomachs,

Thoroughly digested while we sleep.

 

If I were to ask her what she dreamt about

I think she’d spit at me.