Five siblings inherit a blanket. They lie beneath it, together, to stay warm.
          But arms and legs stick out and the siblings squabble and tug. They do
          not realize that they would all fit if they just moved closer together.

This is the Blanket Story. Poets, artists, and musicians have responded to this tale in creative ways. All poems appear here, our ONLINE POETRY SHOWCASE. Visit our main page to find out more about the project.

Anne Harding Woodworth

Landays for a Drunk

after four siblings attempted to save the fifth

Old man, we found you comatose, near
death in dark piss and mice. You mumbled you were sleepy.

Best sleep’s for lovers’ restoration.
Your sleep pulled you down into lonely oblivion.

It’s reptilian, this reaching for
vodka, a force that through the green fuse drives the flower.

Put your hat on, homo sapiens,
brim and crown, and protect your brain’s regeneration.

Put your shoes on, homo erectus,
and walk out the door of your filthy cave forever.

Your legs are thin as bed slats. Who would
curl around them and on what blue-and-white striped ticking?

Sober you are haughty. You forget
by drinking your way into abject humility.

Worm, low as you are, you’re not humble.
What makes you feel superior to nearby farmers?

Your wife left you with a bottle in
your mouth, infant boy she had put up for adoption.

It’s safer to take a rescue dog
than an ashen pink sot with fur growing at the nape.

Moon has no hope of companionship,
yet it revels in contours, rebirth, and reflection.

May you soon be the moon, water to
sun’s fire, ease in solitude, light rimming your head.

May you soon be the moon, travel great
heights, all-seeing, an owl, head orbiting on a branch.




[Quote from Dylan Thomas, “The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower.”]