Mother always called you her porch sleeper.
Your bedroom with its down cover and false
stars lay unused until harvest apples were pressed into cider.
You slept on two wicker chairs
pushed together. Your body wedged on the fading striped pillows.
You said there were no closets here
for the monsters, only woods
with the willows we prayed to.
The road winding past our brown house
led the danger to us. He knew where your body was
under thin sheets. He must have passed before
but that night is the one we remember.
He picked your sleeping body up
putting the chairs back
in their proper day places.
Taking the thin sheet with him
as if to say you never belonged to us.