Last night I dreamt
by Maria Giesbrecht
after Wo Chan
my mother was a thimble. My father was a needle.
During the day, he sewed blankets. Large ones for God,
small ones for the devil. Every night, he left the safety
of my mother and went into the night unprotected.
I was a spool of pink thread. Small. From a discount
bin. Sometimes I was useful. Mainly, I was pretty.
Still, I was hopeful that one day I would make it into a blanket.
I wanted to be warm, soft like rabbit’s custard. I wanted
to snuff the fire of my father’s sins with the length of my body.
My father liked the cold night against his bare eye.
Danger got him going. Yet, the red outline of my mother
always pressed into the equator of his thoughts.
In the morning, I can still see him slinking home—
the tip of his body dull and dirty. Used.
With each Poem of the Month selection, we include a contributor’s note and an editor’s note.
 | A guest post by
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brilliant, every line a surprise/aslant, and that ending! Unforgettable poem, thank you Maria and ONLY POEMS.
This is what we’ve come to expect from Maria: Exquisite craft, meticulous detail, enchanting metaphors, brilliant wordplay. All in bite-size pieces of poetic beauty. Thank you OP for printing this and to MG for having the courage to compose it.