Shon Mapp

12th, January, 12:34 Of all the lot, I was the Douglas fir you carried up the stairs in December, worshipped for the season. Now, my dried needles gather at the foot of our bed. You sweep them into the rug pile with your feet-roots like snow angels. Out of ritual, infrequently, you stroke me; water my reservoir while whispering regrets into my trunk’s carcass. 18th, January, 14:06 You make me into a catchall stand for worn, but not quite dirty t-shirts.