Well, this last week kind of kicked me in the patootie! There was my birthday, and work, and an important deadline, and a tragedy within my husband’s high school community, and a sick kiddo, and just life in general. So instead of the more thoughtful birthday blog post I had planned to share about some writing swag (hooray presents! happy birthday, me!), I’m gonna give myself a pass and simply post a terrible and unedited and kind of sappy poem that I wrote while rocking said sick child to sleep. I haven’t posted any of my writing for a while (which is maybe something of a relief?), but I’ll post this now with the promise of something a little more substantial next week.
You guys are lovely. Happy writing!
Cheeks red with fever, hair damp with sweat,
Panting like a puppy in the sun.
I am pinned beneath you to this rocking chair,
Thinking of when you were tiny,
Thinking of when you fit in my belly,
And listening worriedly to your breaths.
You fuss and struggle and whine,
And I whisper and sing all the lullabies you liked best
When our days were tallied by diapers and feedings.
Finally, you settle with your hot cheek
Against my left breast
And you quiet and you drift to sleep.
Your ear over my heart, I wonder
If you hear it and you think
Of peace and warmth and water,
And of when you were tiny,
And of when you fit in my belly,
My pulse thrumming through the walls,
My breaths rising and falling like a tide.
How could a child stay awake
When revisiting that place
On a fevered night, like a dream?
Your breaths smooth, and your cheeks cool,
And even though I am tired, and should go to bed,
I stay with you curled close to my heart,
Knowing the spell will break like the fever,
And only I will remember this moment.