I sleep each night
under my mother’s blanket.
Its blue and white stripes
stitched in thick knots
to fight the cold that creeps under the door
around the windows
through the vents.
Sometimes,
I like to open the window shades
stare at the muddy, grey world,
and press my hand against the glass.
I like to watch as the warmth of my skin
sends shadows of fog
To surround my outstretched fingertips.
I sleep each night
under my mother’s blanket.
The fat yarn weighs down on me
holds me still
keeps me grounded
as my mind wanders in the dark,
my body anchored by each stitch.
On warm nights,
I lift the blanket from my bed.
I spread it out like wings in front of me,
my arms reaching out to each corner of the room.
I collapse into the blanket,
hugging it’s soft flesh to my body.
I fold it gently and lay it across my feet.
I sleep each night
under my mother’s blanket.
My knees pulled up,
tucked against my soft belly
while my head bows down to meet them.
I let the weight of the blanket hold me down
and I fall asleep.