Carolyn Faye Davis

The Blanket

 At first, the blanket was enough.
 Bequeathed to all five sons as one,
 it was sewn from bits of each boy’s clothes
 and held the history of their lives.

 That first night, they all piled in Grossmutter’s bed
 and pulled the new coverlet over their knees.
 Propping on pillows and leaning on Simon,
 the littler ones listened to him tell their stories,
 each tale reflected in swatches of fabric.
 The squares in the corners were Fabio’s t-shirt,
 Sebastian’s pajamas formed stripes down the long side,
 the border itself came from Oliver’s socks,
 and Leo’s bright flannels were appliquéd rainbows.
 They cuddled together beneath the warm colors,
 a quintet of boys falling tandem to sleep.

 But, in the night, the room grew cold
 and one by one the brothers woke
 and yanked the blanket back and forth
 to claim its favors for himself.

 Each boy forgot so soon
 the warmth he found enclosed
 in his brothers’ open arms,

 and the room without
 turned only colder
 
 and distant.

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