Katherine

 

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.

Just so.

Taking the thin sheet with him

as if to say you never belonged to us.