How the Nightmare Named Itself
His palms smelled like off milk.
One cotton hand pressed my throat,
The other kept a vice-tight hold
On my face.
The next night he was wearing a bird costume
And retching over a wall.
I could smell his arse and its
Notes of fine Mexican chillies.
Last night though he was pure energy
Transcendent violence contained
In a kind of screaming mass
As it inched upstairs.
Uncle Bob:
The nightmare’s name for death.
(But it named itself.) BOB.
No, this is the child’s name for death.
The child wakes sweating
countless times – each another layer
of the dream.