This is how she sleeps
this how she awakens
you tell me if she's crazy.
In the stillness of snow flakes
tossed outside her window
in somber light before the day breaks
she twists in sheets
moans, groans and whispers
in Sanscrit no, in Spanish not
it sounds to me like gibberish.
I put my ear to her throat,
neither is it German. Further down,
between her heart and navel,
I note, indeed, it's English
mantra of senseless repetitions
the groans and moans a dozen times
clarifies, intensifies, the bed posts they go shaking.
"I love you, dearest, with all my soul...
my being being being."
A mystery, who she addresses.
Her husband dead, her children gone
the one remaining might be God
and, then, her breathing ceases.
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