James THOMPSON, Spring 2019
Feathers Insulate My Home
My mother would pin flattened birds
to the drywall of our home.
Birds found against the city curbs amid
dry leaves and plastic wrappers.
My mother liked to keep dead things
alive as long as she could.
Careful never to name them in front of me,
she’d arrange the birds above her
sewing machine, heads up and in a row.
The only part of Cinderella I remember
word for word is –Cinderella, hard up
on time and resources, collected all
the dead birds beneath the sills of her
spotless windows, and, using the tine
of a fork and her own hair, sewed
herself a gown of feathers. When it came
time for the ball, she took flight
and never touched earth ever again.
James Allen Thomson currently lives in Central Texas where he is an English lecturer at Texas State University. His poetry has appeared in Poached Hare and Twyckenham Notes and is forthcoming in fields magazine.