Caitlin E. Thomson

  I wake to the world constructed without dreams, the one I left to dust itself off in blue exhaustion.   Uncorked wine, just a glass gone, rind of cheese, hunk of bread tilted sideways, The exoskeleton of grapes, vine left without a clue to their colour.   The rains of winter descend outside, and I am…

  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…