Size / / /
In amongst her mother’s linen
was a single grey pillowslip
made from sleet;
it lay folded
into quarters, and was totally bound.
She shook it out with a snap,
but it held together;
a square shower
of icy rain, going nowhere
and coming only from itself.
She placed a pillow inside it
and immediately
it became
a sodden weight.
When she laid her head upon it
her mind was as full
and as emptying
as the endless skies
Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Sylvia Spruck Wrigley. (Thanks, Sylvia!) To find out more about our funding model, or donate to the magazine, see the Support Us page.