A nightmare meant to guard the dream dogs. Meant to hold
our tantrums and force-feed them candied cashews.
Something to make us listen. Meant to pull our chests forward
through silk combs until we’re absolutely spent.
We’re tired of the dew-drops listening.
For all our central pains. For the fly-traps made from week-old
boxes. The talent you spun, fleet-like, snapping and deplorable.
We’ve learned we’re nothing. We’ve learned we’re absolutely perfect.
SOPHIE McCREESH is pursuing an M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Guelph. She lives in Toronto.