Caitlin Thomson

May Day

The land was peeling from its hinges. The sod no longer 
content to be attached to anything as mundane as soil 
had uprooted itself, exposing acres of worms. The flowers 
too were getting out, but some of their bulbs were giving 
them a hard time, the daffodils kept shaking like flapper 
dancers, but could not free themselves entirely. The trees 
were a lost cause with the weight of roots. Their leaves left 
them, and so did their blossoms if they had any. Magnolia flowers
floated casually in the evening breeze. Later, when they could 
not find their tree again, and would have to settle 
for a stranger, they might regret this hasty exodus, 
but now they are just a part of the chaos, the landscapes 
remaking itself as it does every spring. The people asleep, 
unaware of the sods night out. The daisies strolled over to the park 
to see what the gazebo was really like, they had heard rumors. 
Dandelions uprooted with the grace of models, and journeyed to 
the neighbors yards. They tried to figure out where their children 
might find their own homes, later in the summer.


Caitlin Thomson has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in numerous places, including The Moth, The Adroit Journal, and Eleven Eleven. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology. You can learn more about her writing at