Poetry: 2 Poems by Caitlin Thomson
Earl Grey in Handcuffs
When stuck in the belly of a whale,
what I longed for most was warm apple pie.
In isolation on Alcatraz, I desired
a blue cashmere sweater and a radio.
On the shortlist of demands to my wartime
abductors in the desert: Clementines, single origin
chocolate, and a good leather chair.
That’s where my priorities lie.
Not in escape but in luxury, in knowing
there is comfort to be found everywhere.
Ode to Ritual
I make the bed every morning. Before our daughter
the bed stayed unmade all day, and at night my
husband would make it over me. A ritual with much
sheet flapping and teases. I would make
breakfast for him, I still do most days, after the bed
is covered with a quilt. He makes coffee for me.
An exchange I am grateful for, even with our daughter’s
loud attempts at attention while the oatmeal bubbles
on the stove. All that we cook for her we cool in
the freezer afterwards to avoid protests of hotsy totsy.
The dog is barking for the yard, then her food, then
the yard again. There is chaos here. But upstairs the
bed is in order and it will stay that way, till my tired
body makes it way upstairs in the dark to it.