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.

B.T. Joy

Our Vision

            it would seem then
that only our vision is to fault
            I’m thinking of the way
we stood together by the farm that day in Idaho
and how you missed the white ongoing show
of two Friesian horses on downtime in the fields 
            how the female’s swanny neck was sloughing
off every oyster of muscle threading the male’s shoulders
            and all this observable from where we loitered
illuminated, as perfection is, by evening
            later, night-fire having seeped
down under the ocean of the clouds, 
I asked you how you could have missed
those horses in their quiet field, playing at love, 
            you answered by asking me
where my eyes had been
when the flowers of purple geraniums tipped
their shady, satin heads on the fence-posts there
            and how the subtle air
played too with their bodies
like playing at love
            it would seem then
that only our vision is to fault
that all we need is to stop this hauling back and forth;
            to centre ourselves in the eye of the other
            and it’s only when pulling close to the beloved
that the lover sees the white-fronted geese
that ringed her garden as a child
            only when the beloved leans
on her lover’s body that she senses, all at once, 
the spring-air through his boyhood window
            I’ve heard it called redemption, mercy, grace
            and yes            
coming together in this way is hard; 
but not impossible
            tens-of-thousands died at Nagasaki
            they say more are dying now; in the gentle
river-plains; the hills and yellow cities of Iraq
            and yet the global military budget
has reached 1.8
trillion dollars
            there has never been a better time
for verification
            for me seeing things as you do
            for climbing, as Rumi says,
up and down the pear tree 
            for the eagle to seek, as Pawhuska says,
the deepest blue of the sky
            and please, don’t misunderstand me 
            this is not a wish
to see things as the heavens see them,
though partly that desire is there,
            but rather I want the man or woman
charged with dropping the bomb to see
            that every threadbare scrap of earth is full
of a thousand braces of Friesian horses
            of wire fences with no end; 
laced and interlocked sublimely
            by the inward spiralling lines
of purple geraniums