“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.
Toward a knot of family under the blanket large enough for them all.