Close-up of a soft blanket.

I wind myself into a blanket, twisting
until my limbs are bound. I burrow tighter.
The blanket grows six mouths. Each mouth speaks

a different language. How many ways are there to say
fear tastes of pine? How many ways are there to say
there is no map, no mountain? The blanket begins

a sinuous rhythm as it squeezes my legs first,
then my arms, then my hands. It never fully lets go.
I can feel the fibers rubbing against each other,

each a fiber I spun starting when I was barely
beginning to breathe. I number my heartbeats
in these fibers, this soft scratch bloom. The blanket

begins a chorus discordant, it starts as a hum
and increases until there’s crying, gasping.
There there, I say. There there. I love you, too,
of course I do. Of course, I do. I do.

Photo by Toshiyuki IMAI, used and adapted under CC.