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.
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.