collaborative storytelling that is equal parts critical and creative

You lay 

wrinkled and born, 

sprawled on the bed 

like a sleeping branch. 

 

When the fire gets low, I stoke it.

Breath, stoke 

Glow and smoke. 

 

Your small sleep of 

padded arms and spoon lips 

is something I know, 

a blanket I have held before. 

As you creak and bubble your breath 

I think of how in sleep we give up age, 

curl towards our own soft bellies, 

reach our fingers out 

for another body 

to cluck into. 

 

I breathe into the fire. 

Breath and fire 

breathes back. 

 

Baba rests you, valleyed 

in the curve of his chest.  

Mama wraps you 

and you settle. 

​

I lay myself by the wood stove

to sleep.

When I wake, a blanket

covers my legs, 

too small for my body and perfectly

warm. 

​

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