It comes during the day, now.

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.


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