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.
Caitlin Elizabeth Thomson‘s work has appeared in numerous journals including the Hart House Review, Going Down Swinging, Labletter, The Toronto Quarterly and Neon. Her first collection of poems, The Victims of Ted Bundy: Washington State and Oregon, is now available from Jeanne Duval Editions.
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