My husband says I mumble in my sleep.
He says I sometimes sing, and sometimes laugh.
He wonders what I've dreamed about. I keep
those little recollections to myself
and ask him what I said. He doesn't know.
He thinks it wasn't English anyway,
some language that he couldn't follow, though
it must be French or Spanish. I just say
I've no idea; I can't remember now—
maybe I was dreaming I was at work
or on the phone. Did I mention a name?
He says he doesn't think so. Just the same
I plan to be prepared in case I do.
It won't be any problem to concoct
a likely explanation—He's in the book
I'm reading—if I ever mention you.
I'll shrug and stretch and yawn and say it seems
there's simply no accounting for one's dreams.
Carol Taylor lives in the Houston area, where she works for an international company and does free lance translating and volunteer work. Her poetry has appeared recently in Iambs & Trochees, Light Quarterly, Susquehanna Quarterly, Byline Magazine, Artemis Journal, and Alsop Review Press's Anthology One. Since 2001 she has held the post of Administrator of the online poetry workshop, Eratosphere. Her chapbook, Saving for the Future, was printed in 2003.
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