Emelie Watkins Valls ’20
Somnambulation When flying sea-born breezes buffet me, The apotheoses of wretched, earthly woe, I stroke their contumacious tendrils in Requital for attesting to my presence. When I grasp the cliff’s lush turquoise hair, I can feel her tremulous rage beneath me. As every petulant wave hits the cliff In nugatory vengeance, I feel her atrocious Tremors augment into quaking terror. When nature casts her misty nets to catch My shining master, I hide my snide smile. Her merciless pillory thwarted, I, below, Begin to look at him, my hurtful moon. His lurid physiognomy hurts me And obviates my right to silence. So, I answer his eternal question: “The friend you importuned me for, I have None. No one can bear the ignominy That must come with consecrating the moon.” Behind a pall, his round face disappears. The undulating crescendos of rage And solitude drown me, and my knees buckle. The currents wrap me into the cliff’s hair And watch as each strand rapidly decays. Thus, I am tied in a violent, sere embrace. One with the cliff, I am now transfigured. I take one last breath before unity, But suddenly I wake in the kitchen. Now, never have I felt more like the cliff.
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