by Manon Cuixeres
It is their freshness that hits me first
(the smell, the bright colors that recall
the innocence of a happy childhood.)
Sophie was telling me how she missed
the smell of sundried sheets
that permeated the summer days
of her time growing up in Jura.
Now we both live in the city
and can’t trust the pigeons with our sheets;
the balcony is not quite ours
but our revenge is cold and cruel
when at night, we get under
our feather duvets, their fluff
compensating for the tumbler-dried
sheets we’re lying on.