Dave Bonta's "Unspoken" is a tiny poem that packs in a lot of quiet strain. The speaker is spending a night with his wife, and the setting seems to be a place where "letters stay dead in the mouth." In other words, words won't come. Whatever needs saying, neither of them can get it out, so the silence between them feels heavy and physical, like something stuck in the throat.
The second stanza shifts to a different image: they are "seasick and glad / for any stop." The judging-by-the-imagery reading is that the night feels like a rolling, queasy journey they can't control. Any pause, any break in the motion, is a relief. The word "glad" matters, because it suggests they're in this together and grateful for small mercies. The mood is uneasy and tired, but also tender. Nothing is resolved, yet the pairing of "my wife" and "we" hints at closeness inside the discomfort.