I come to bed
late after
darkness turns
on its backside
and death takes
a cigarette break.
She sleeps face up
still as a museum
piece and I
linger over her
the way we both
used to stare into
the baby’s crib,
his fists clenched,
head tilted up
searching for the womb.
I’d hold my palm
above his face, hoping
to catch any small puff
of life and she’d dip closer,
wait for his tiny chest to rise.
Sometimes I couldn’t
stand it and I’d poke
him awake for the relief
that came with
his angry cry. Now I
stare down into her
sleeping face, lips
slightly blue, sheen
of night cream, chest
serene, and I panic, reach
until I see movement
behind her eyelids,
realize it’s the dream
where she cradles the baby,
arranging his blanket,
his future, imagine
she’s been staring down at me,
these many long, winter nights
stroking my clenched fists,
naming each breath I’ve lost
humming prayers and lullabies,
thankful for her ransoms, how
she quietly stands in for my shift.
