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.

Dawn Ferchak

“And the little one said...”

So they all rolled over and one fell out.

There were five in the bed and one blanket, and if one moved, they all moved and then something of someone's fell out.

A foot.
An arm.
A leg.
Some blanketless appendage, bare to the draft, with every turn, every night.

The little one was sly and small and always in the middle, in the spaces where there was blanket and pillow and the surrounding warmth of two bodies. Her siblings were heavy sleepers—until the draft was felt—and the little one could wriggle and burrow without waking anyone, if she found herself on an end.

There were always spaces to wriggle into, spaces between bodies that blamed each other for blanketless arms and legs and feet, and refused to touch even when dreaming.

On the coldest nights, the little one would whisper, “Roll over, roll over.”

And they always would, and the blanket would roll with them, and someone's something would be left in the cold.

But not the little one, the wriggler warm and wee and wondering, always wondering why they always rolled Away and never Toward
Toward the center
Toward the warmth
Toward a knot of family under the blanket large enough for them all.